Conundrum
by MereWhispers
Summary: 【on going】DHr. EWE? (With slight amendment to the consequences of the War.) She is suffering bad enough. Why can't he back off when she tells him to? He is something she would never understand, she decides. Nor the emotions that he seems to spew out at times. And she doesn't want to either, she tells herself.
1. One

_**DISCLAIMER:**_

 _ **All the Characters are rightfully owned by the mighty JK Rowling. The basic storyline - the brilliant world of magic, Hogwarts, the beauty of it all that enchants us - is all JK's property.**_ _ **I only own the plot to this particular thing called 'Conundrum'.**_ _ **Rest, the Characters, along with their names, houses and grades at the OWLs, belong to JK. Though, my heart happens to be a property of Tom Felton, but that is besides the point.**_

* * *

 _Hello._

 _The only reason why this isn't a One Shot is that I'm uncomfortable posting One Shots that touch 20K mark im number of words._

 _Be warned:_

 _\- Secondary character death._

 _\- Fred/Hermione to some extent, in the beginning._

 _\- Depressed and snappy Hermione._

 _{Rated 'T' mainly for the next one - or at most, two - installment(s). This part has mere mild swearing. No F-bomb, I guess.}_

 _ **Note: Ron lovers are advised to steer clear of this fic, sorry.**_

* * *

 **One**

* * *

Hermione watches in numb concentration, as the human sized, bright red wooden box is lowered into the earth, a few shades darker. She thinks of the relevance of having a red coloured death-box for him. She sees no point. There isn't any, actually, other than - she belatedly squints through the foggy whiteness of the pelleting raindrops - the possibility of this being the twins' last attempt at making their affections known to him. Or their affection for him, known to _others_. She knows that they haven't done it to prove it out, despite the fact the latter makes much more sense.

Though, she feels ridiculous at the aspect, he would never be objecting if they put him in a green and silver coffin, instead. He _cannot_ , she corrects. Without prior warning, her eyes burn and she feels her vision getting blurrier than moments ago.

She doesn't know why they've chosen a person as emotionless as Kingsley Shacklebolt to read out eulogies. But then, when had she ever expected herself to be listening about the person he's currently going on about? She knows tears are trickling down her face, and also that no one can see them - given that she chooses to stand in a Muggle raincoat and no covers for her head. She's drenched, inside out.

Distinct, shrill whines tear through the rhythmic rain showers. She doesn't have to look at Ginny to know that she has been held back by Charlie and Harry - who are both no brilliant themselves - from diving into the pit made by digging much deeper than what the coffin's height requires.

Wretched sobs escape a noticeably tightened throat, and then she looks up. She flinches slightly, to find Molly's weeping, red eyes trained upon her. She realises, with a sigh, that her own eyes are possibly red too, and that has given her away. But does it matter? She figures that it doesn't, when her eyes scan the entirety of the Weasley clan's shaking shoulders.

Angelina Johnson is standing close to George in telltale. There wouldn't be any element of surprise for Hermione if they get married within a year. After all, Bill and Fleur's wedding had happened pretty much close to Dumbledore's demise. Although, of course, this loss is _way_ deeper than Dumbledore, but she knows that it doesn't make much of a difference for most; it's just the Weasleys and herself that would mourn more. Not even Harry. He was much too close to that old headmaster of theirs, in comparison to the others.

She feels sick when the next coffin is raised, and Shacklebolt clears his throat for the next eulogy. It is nothing that she didn't already know, but their professionalism over _him_ unnerves her. _He_ fought Voldemort alongside her and Harry, for Christ's sake!

She hasn't seen him move, and jumps when Fred Weasley's hand comes to rest over her shoulder. She takes a breath, clearly reading the lines over his dried face beneath the umbrella. She is certain she has never wished to see what she does. She hadn't expected to see it so soon, either.

The way he gives her a tight smile makes her grimace. She knows he doesn't notice, and she lets him when he pulls her into a reassuring side-hug. She accidentally meets Arthur's eyes over a sobbing and embracing Harry and Ginny. The old man, against her expectation, gives her a reassuring nod. She looks away, not willing to decipher the gesture to what her subconscious knows it is. Percy is giving her a reassuring smile when Fred leads her past him - she shivers, and she knows it is not from cold; she is beneath an umbrella and pressed into a warm body.

She is reeling over how soon had the world forgotten about one Ronald Weasley's grave, as she walks out from the Public Cremating Ceremony, and wonders how long would it be before they forgot about his person.

She cannot decide what the hand over her back makes her feel. _Reassurance_ isn't it, at least.

 **ooo**

She knows Fred would never force her, but his not too subtle disappointment at her pulling back from his advances irritates her. She is more than irritated, actually.

It has been a month since she has allowed him to shift into her flat. He is a good person, undeniably. But their relationship is, rather, merely his unrequited love.

She was infinitely surprised when he first told her. But later she realised that the huge support they were getting - Merlin knows _why_ \- from the Weasleys accounted for more of the emotion.

She hasn't really come out from her brooding shell, she knows but doesn't seem to able to have a control over it. When she looks back, she thinks she can count the number of sentences escaping her in the past five months - since the end of the War.

She doesn't actually know _why_ she's pulling along in this extremely weird relation. She does respect Fred, and cares enough to not injure his feelings, but she is aware that it is just a matter of time before her patience snaps and she stomps off his life.

There was a glimmer of hope that she would eventually fall for him, when he first held her hands and told her that he would be by her side no matter how she felt about him. That hope, however, has faded since it became obvious to her that she isn't going to like any physical advances from him.

She realises that she is more not _into_ Fred, than she is _over_ Ron.

Again, she cannot decide why she is putting up, to one fine day walk out and hurt him anyway.

"It's raining."

She looks up from her clasped hands in her lap to Fred. He has a little, half smile over his face as he leans to forward her a mug - which she expects to be coffee but finds out to be hot chocolate - and he seems to have refreshed. All the apprehension he had shown when she flinched away from him cupping her cheeks, ten minutes ago, has left his demeanour. She shrugs off that one out of many similar incidents, too.

She nods, looking out of the window to acknowledge what he had said.

He sighs and sits down across from her - on the carpet too, looking out of the window too. She sips at the sweet, heavenly liquid without a word. She knows he doesn't expect her to say anything. She never does.

But she looks up when he doesn't, either. He mostly does.

His face is thoughtful as he glances at the scenery before them. "I'm going out to the Bookstore, next street, tomorrow."

She stiffens. She knows what that means, and she isn't ready. She doesn't want to go out to such places with him. Their presence together at the places of the Magical World is a different story. _That_ is about keeping up with appearances. But going off somewhere in the Muggle environment with him - where there are no _spectators_ , as such - would mean that they are hanging around, with each other for company. It would mean they _have_ something, which they _don't_.

She has overanalyzed this, but she thought he knew that. But, it seems he doesn't. She is surprised when he chuckles.

"Oh, Hermione, _you_ don't have to go, of course." Her eyes widen as she looks at him in confusion. He shrugs. "I just meant that _I_ am going out, and that if you want me to _bring_ you something, you may tell me."

She blinks at him for moments, before an involuntary relief floods through her. She feels respect for him creep up her spine, and she decides to award him with at least a smile.

She tries, unsure whether the muscles on her face still remember to twist into the peculiar expression. He grins right back, and she knows she has succeeded.

Fleetingly, she thinks she _does_ know, why she puts up with him for so long. She's selfish, that is why.

 **ooo**

She sees him, for the first time in almost half a year, at a forced visit to Flourish and Blotts with Fred. At first she doesn't recognize him, in spite of his flash of blond hair and the distinctive paleness of his face. He's in Muggle clothing, and she's certain that _that_ is something she had never imagined relating to Draco Malfoy.

She gives a questioning look to Fred, jerking her head to the general direction of the blond. Fred squints over her shoulder and frowns. She is slightly surprised at how easily the redhead has taken up to understanding most of her gestures, because she lacks heavily in the speaking department.

Then his brows shoot up. He leans slightly, eyes trained upon the very same spot past her shoulder, and speaks in hushed tones.

"Last I heard, his wand was confiscated and he was made to exile into the Muggle World for a year - if he was to avoid the alternate three months sentence to Azkaban. I wonder what he must be doing _here_ …"

She is so stunned that she doesn't breathe for a second. _Wand confiscated_? She cannot think of the prospect. For a moment, she forgets that it is _Malfoy_ she is hearing about and her heart floods with compassion.

She turns back to the shelf she was browsing through, when Fred's eyes fall back to hers. He might have been waiting for a response. But she knows he knows better than that.

It is when her eyes accidentally clash with the contempt filled grey ones, that she finally registers the extent of Malfoy's punishment. It is nothing, actually, but she cannot begin to think how much it serves him well.

Without her realising, her face has contorted into a scowl. She is taken aback, though, when he moves away and she doesn't find the usual, expected sneer plastered over his lips. He simply turns away and walks out.

She realises he looked dejected, and she probably added onto it, a bit too late. She doesn't care, however. All the worst she can do to him, would only serve him right, she tells herself.

Though she doesn't understand why she needs that bit of self-explanation.

 **ooo**

She thinks she might cry or be sick, if nothing else. She had known all along, exactly _how_ it would be to reveal her inability to reciprocate Fred's feelings to him. But she never thought of the aftereffects.

He gave her too much of himself, actually. She feels uncomfortable by the mere acknowledgement.

The front door slams and rattles on it's hinges. She starts at the echoing thud. She knows that he doesn't have a reason to be patient anymore.

She tries, but cannot feel guilty.

 **ooo**

It's Christmas, and roughly a month since her breakup with Fred. _Breakup_? Hardly. But that is what the headlines on the Daily Prophet read, and _that_ is what the world pays attention to.

She doesn't go to the Burrow. She cannot get herself to face Fred Weasley, just yet.

Instead, she spends the day alone at her flat, pumping herself up about the prospect of getting a job at the Ministry. She has practically sat idle and mourned since last six months. She feels she has wasted enough time, already.

The old, forgotten Gryffindor spirit seeps in, finally. Or, is that the spirit of _being_ Hermione Granger - the Brightest Witch of Her Age? It doesn't matter, and she doesn't care. All she knows is that she will be pursuing her deep down stifled desires of being an Interrogator for Wizengamot.

She owls Harry to set up an appointment with Minister Shacklebolt for her, in a haste.

Later, she realises that she didn't mention Christmas greetings.

 **ooo**

She doesn't know whether to find comfort in it, or consider it arrogancy on his part, when Kingsley Shacklebolt owls her about how she doesn't need an interview to pursue any job she desires.

She feels he is trying to flatter her, and that gives her a moment of pride. He has replied late, though, and she is frustrated that she cannot visit the Ministry tomorrow. It is going to be the first day of year 1999, you see.

She decides to trick Harry into spending the New Year's Eve with her. She owls him about some _necessary discussion_ she needs to have about the Minister's response to Harry's letter.

An hour later, Harry and Ginny have flooed into her Muggle apartment, with a cake and bottles of champagne.

"You're not too subtle, don't make faces, Hermione," Ginny is smirking as she pulls her into a hug.

She isn't making _faces_ , if you leave out standing open mouthed for a minute and then scowling in confusion for another.

"Fred is going out with Alicia, you know."

She looks at Harry, considering her response. Meanwhile, she sees past his nonchalant facade, and realises how nervous he is about her response.

Then, she smiles. "It's a good thing. He's an amazing person and deserves to be loved, Harry."

He visibly deflates in relief, while Ginny stands frowning at her side. Then the younger witch nods, as if deciphering some hidden meaning to her statement. When she speaks, Hermione realises she actually did find out.

"You're a good person as well, Hermione. And… the rest of it… _you_ do too."

Hermione almost laughs at how careful and held back Ginny still is around her, despite being her best friend's girlfriend for more than two years now. Then she is reminded of her words and she holds back.

She never noticed when others grew up fast and she was left behind. She does, now.

 **ooo**

She isn't surprised to see Arthur smiling at her from being seated at his position of Chief Warlock. She isn't surprised at his _position_ , that is.

She doesn't really know what all has been going on around everyone's life, actually. She was cocooned in her shell at her Muggle flat, and Fred cared too much about her to tell her about things that could cause troubles to her brain.

Now, her mind still unfocused due to the two-floor elevators ride, she is nervously looking around at the Members of the Wizengamot. They are, to her utter relief, mostly unknown faces. She recognises Roger Davies, though, and wonders how long he has been working here. In her current state, she cannot even clearly recall the number of years he was ahead to her.

Huffing out a breath, she sends a weak glare to Shacklebolt who is sitting with Arthur, with that ever present calm over his face. She is _really_ pissed at the man.

She was summoned into intimidating court environment to witness the proceedings over a case, today morning. After surviving through the three-hour long hearing, Hermione wanted nothing more than to head home and sink into a warm bath - rechecking and rethinking her decision of what she has gotten herself into. But _no_ , the Minister had other plans.

She is made to sit among nine other Members, rather than the earlier fifty, as they all wait for Draco Malfoy to arrive.

She'll be Interrogating his hearing next week - the Half-Punishment completion milestone. She feels nauseated at the aspect.

 **ooo**

She is at the verge of pulling her hair out at her indecision over considering Draco Malfoy human, and requesting for a private meeting with him before she would strike him left and right with humiliating queries at the hearing.

This treatment is what she had always planned to give her targets. But now, she regrets considering _this_ particular person a normal category.

He rolls his eyes again.  
"I say, Granger, " he sounds resigned, yet she doesn't miss the patronising undertone to his voice, "come up with a better excuse."

She throws her arms up in exasperation.  
"I don't _want_ to be questioning what you're uncomfortable answering, Malfoy!" She yells out in frustration. "Why is that _so bloody difficult_ for you to accept?"

He shrugs, ghost of a smirk appearing over his battered, withered face. "Try, _I'm Draco Malfoy and you're the Gryffindor Princess_. Since when does your kind show empathy to _me_?"

She growls, getting up with a stomp. Her chair falls back, and she thinks of the pristine white paint of her office walls that it may have marred in it's wake. " _Get. Out_. Now. This very instant."

His brows begin to rise as he nods. "Giving up already, Granger?"

She takes his challenging stance about the nerve he has mustered up to ridicule her in her own office in the Ministry building. The Ministry which hasn't granted him freedom in spite of the letters and testaments that Dumbledore and Snape have left behind. She makes a quick decision.

"Right." She crosses arms over her chest. "You would be doing better with all the jabs made to your Azkaban residing father and raped, tormented and killed mother, won't you?" His jaw has clenched, and eyes hardened. "Hmm," she hums thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at the Ministry marked paperweight over her desk, "then so be it. You deal with the shit, I don't give a damn."

His forehead crinkles in what she supposes is confusion. But she will be adamant over the decision she has made, a minute back.

"Don't be so pensive, Malfoy," she sneers at him, " _I_ wouldn't be the one taking it out on you. I'll sit back and watch the show."

His face clears in understanding as disbelief slowly takes over. She doesn't think he would state out the obvious, now that she has put it out crystal clear. But then, when has he ever _not_ surprised her?

"You… You're _withdrawing_?"

She is so much greatly satisfied by the quiver of horror in his voice that she feels almost wicked. She knows how he must feel about this. She _is_ an all-morale-and-compassion human being, after all. He's certain that she won't go harsh over him, because she _can't_. He's right, of course.

"Yes. That's right."

Surprising her yet again, he shoots up from the chair across her desk and makes his way out of her office over shaky legs. She smirks.

 **ooo**

She is heavily disoriented as her eyes peel open. She was certain that she is waking before time, even before she registers the absolute darkness of the street from across the window at her bedside. And she also knows that some sound - or movement - is what has woken her up. She can bet she was having a dreamless sleep.

Gingerly, she extracts her wand from beneath her pillow and yawns.

 _Thump. Thump._

She is startled at the sound. Not because it _is_ a sound, though, but because she recognises what the sound is. Someone is banging at her front door.

Her clock reads half past three of the morning and she is more curious than scared as she finds her way to the door. She hasn't switched on lights for better measure.

She peeks through the eyehole and physically jumps back at the tousled blond head she sees. She is more than shocked to see him, even when she _knows_ why he is here, and has practically set the entire play up to make this happen. It is safe to say that she has waited for him to show up before her, with an apology and the tamed behaviour she requires of him, daily for the three days that have gone since she kicked him out of her office.

She guesses that _this_ was the last place and time that she had supposed he would choose to see her at. But he has, and now she has to continue playing her part.

Gulping, she unlocks the door and opens it a crack, leaving the chain lock still latched..

"What the _hell_ , Malfoy?" she grunts, because she _is_ annoyed for real.

He sighs. She unconsciously notices that he wears a Muggle hoodie with ragged, worn out pair of jeans. She cannot make past the light colouring of the hoodie and the multiple shades darker trousers in the dimly lit corridor.

"I'm sorry, Granger," he mumbles.

She thinks she has misheard. But the way he avoids her eyes, focussing hard at somewhere near her feet, assures her that she hasn't. She blinks, shaking her head. Straightforward much?  
" _What_?"

He sighs again, combing fingers through his hair and resting them against the back of his neck. She notices his eyes are closed. "I'm _sorry_ , I said. For being difficult. Please don't draw away from my case."

She is stunned. She didn't think she'll live long enough to find out that Draco Malfoy is capable of apologizing _and_ pleading in one single sentence. She didn't think he'll be capable to do either of it at all, period.

"And… I'm supposed to accept this. Why?"

She unlatches the chain and the door flies open to rest with a dull throb against the adjacent wall. He hasn't moved, and she believes he hasn't planned the conversation to this limit. He may have practiced his apology, alright, but not everything going with it. And she has merely asked the most obvious question right now.

When she is certain that he won't speak at all, she sighs.  
"You know, you're disturbing a Ministry employee in the dead of the night for a weak, reasonless plea, and apologizing for something that you feel totally _not_ sorry about-"

"No!" He looks up, bewildered, and she is taken aback at the desperation shining in his eyes. "I _am_ sorry about that, Granger, and not just _that_ actually…" He looks away and she shuts her open mouth and clears her throat. He follows suit. "I'm sorry about everything else, too. The childhood things, I mean."

Things? _Things_! How dare he call all of the humiliation he has caused her for the better part of her life as _things_? He is looking up again and has probably noticed the burning rage in her eyes because he flinches. He should, actually, because she isn't sure that she'll be letting him off without slapping him tonight.

"Alright, not _things_ , maybe." She holds back a gasp at his too accurate assumption of what has buggered her. But, hasn't he been accurate always? That is probably the _reason_ why no one has ever been able to humiliate her the way he has. "I'm ashamed of the things that I've done to you in the past."

Now she snorts. _This_ is a blatant lie. He looks hurt when she looks back at him after rolling her eyes. She snorts again. "Give something _believable_ , Malfoy."

He closes his eyes, and sighs for the third time in the almost fifteen minutes he has been here for. "I am telling you the truth, believe it or not. I've spent _six months_ between Muggles, Granger. Sure I know what they are like and what they are _not_."

This is a logic that she would have believed with anyone but him. Anyone but _Draco Malfoy_. She sets a sharp glare at him. "Oh? And exactly _what_ is it that you've realised they aren't? Did you see someone bleed and not find the redness smeared with _mud_?" He flinches again, and she prefers to take it for the hiss of her words rather than the jab she has aimed, "Did you happen to find _that_ , Malfoy?"

He shakes his head, slowly, and she has to look away to not be unnerved by the extreme dejection emanating from his eyes. "Not that, no. But enough to get over the prejudices from my past life."

The sincerity in his voice makes up for her avoiding his eyes. She feels exposed. Regardless to say that she has believed him. But then, she is reminded of the _actual_ reason he is here for. All thoughts of sympathy and understanding fly right out of the window. She fumes as her stance hardens again.

"You're saying this so that you can receive me back as your Interrogator, isn't it?"

He looks past her elbow and she crosses her arms tighter. "Right now, yes. But I would have done it anyways, sooner or later."

She scoffs. Ever heard of a Malfoy - and a Slytherin; all of them _are_ Slytherins, actually - committing a generous deed without personal motives? She hasn't.

"Yeah, right. And, what else? You were planning on sending me a bunch of flowers and asking me out for a date, right? _Sooner or later_."

He grimaces and she can't blame him. The words have left an ugly taste in her own mouth, as well. But she doesn't fool herself when she knows that it is more because of the actual realisation of not having received flowers since more than a year, and has less to do with the idea of Malfoy doing what she has mentioned of. The idea is too far fetched to even affect her.

"As I said, believe what you want, Granger. I _am_ ashamed of what all I did in the past and I _know_ that my being a kid and Father's blind follower does little to cover up. I would be gratified if you turn up with the Interrogators' badge, tomorrow."

She watches his retreating back as he walks away with a bent head. She isn't going to be there at all tomorrow, if she has to stop herself from wearing the said badge. She has too many Morales for her own good.

 **ooo**

She tries forgetting about his praising, hopeful eyes that were trained upon her for the most part of the session. Most part of the _five-hour_ long session. But with the current scenario, all she can think of is that very look at his face.

Rubbing at her temples she growls when another announcement in her office tells her that _Draco Malfoy would like to see her whenever she's available_. She _isn't_ bloody available! Has that man _no sense_? Her head is pounding with fatigue and instead of being thankful and quietly sodding off, the git is trying to _see_ her. Wow.

She has cancelled all of her meetings, and all of the appointments with people who want to question her about how come has she been able to convince the court about the fact that her sworn enemy has proved himself worthy enough in the world of Muggles and can be released from his punishments after another month. She _herself_ doesn't know how that has happened.

The person defending Malfoy at the session was, to her surprise, Andromeda Tonks, herself. _She_ had proposed the plea of reducing his punishment to a month instead of the span of another six.

All Hermione did was question him about things of the Muggle world that were actually not known to people here, if they hadn't been in close proximity with the Muggles. He told them the name of three brands of shirts, the best supermarket in London, the ingredient used in cappuccino, the prices of linen, silk and cotton bed covers - she questioned only about linen and silk, he argued that most common people preferred cotton instead - three different variety of cheese, names of a famous International player each from Soccer, Rugby, Tennis, Golf, Badminton, about Independence struggle in Vietnam and about Mahatma Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. She had been slightly impressed herself with his smooth and unamused responses.

Another thing she did was not letting the other two Interrogators continue when they began with irrelevant things that related to his parents or his childhood or his broken betrothing to Astoria Greengrass because of his punishment.

The thankful smile Andromeda had sent her way, when Arthur announced that people wanting him out of punishment had overruled the number of those wanting him in it, made it worth her efforts - and her irritation - over the entire past week.

She sighs and looks at the grandfather's clock sitting at the far off corner of her office. It is past 4 of the evening and her thoughts are back to a long soak in warm bath.

She is collecting things to seal them into her beaded bag, when the door barges open with a hasty knock. She looks up, startled, at the exasperated, black haired, golden eyed man. She recognises him as the one who was appointed by Shacklebolt to serve as her Assistant but she had denied the requirement of any.

"Miss Granger… Ma'am…" He is bending over the couch sitting between the door and the clock at the corner, panting heavily.

She is concerned. "What is it, Andrew?".

He shakes his head, takes deep, long breaths and straightens. "Draco Lucius Malfoy is having a fit, outside in the lobby, blaming us to be lying about your denial to see anybody. He's-"

" _Right_ , " she barks through barred teeth. "And why does that feel like something he _wouldn't_ do, huh?"

Andrew's face has positively paled from its tan. He gulps twice before stepping forward into her office. "Of-of _course_ , Miss Granger, that is something he would do… He _is_ doing it, right now."

She scowls at the seemingly daft man, adjusting his broad framed specs nervously, and thanks Godric for giving her enough sense to deny taking him as an Assistant.

"Does this conversation have a point?" She huffs, rolling her eyes when he stutters.

"Ma'am… Minister had requested me to ask you to write a note to Draco Lucius Malfoy and testify him of your presence, and unwillingness over seeing him," he finishes in a breath and drags in another, quickly,."Will you do it?"

"Do I have an option?" She cocks an eyebrows, scowling darkly.

He clears his throat. "Well… No?"

She snatches a parchment from the stack at her table and pulls out her Muggle pen to scribble about how she is _busy relaxing her mind from the overly exhausting session_ and Malfoy can _shove it up his snobby ass and sod off_.

She has almost forwarded the piece to the idiot before her, after finishing her signature with a plop over the _i_ , but falters. _No_. What is she doing?

Feeling immensely embarrassed at her childish behavior, she crumples the note in her hand, stuffing it into her robe pockets to _Incendio_ later. The gasp released from her room-sharer brings her out of the self-chiding act.

"Oh, _sod it_!" she groans when she hears the distinctive enraged drawl of the last person she wishes to see at the moment. "I'm leaving anyway,Andrew, so you may just deal with the devil yourself, no?"

Andrew's horrified face is the last thing she sees and Malfoy's _shut it_ , the last she hears, before she is being pulled away by the emergency portkey she has been provided with - as is every other worker, ever since the fall of Voldemort.

She thinks that being pestered by a dumb idiot, and about to being done by a another, insane one, is an emergency enough. She smiles, shaking her head as she steps into her room - the image of a hot bath pasted firmly over her neurons.

 **ooo**

It is a quarter to six when she has finished brewing coffee, and when a brief knock sounds at her door. She knows it is one of the people from Housekeeping, because they have a peculiar style of clicking their knuckles against the wood.

But, she cannot put it past Draco Malfoy for having bribed one of them to knock the door for him. Especially when she has blocked her Floo connection and hasn't turned up at the Ministry yesterday, and the day before. But, he lives a few blocks away and can come over to bugger her whenever he feels like. Not that he _has_ , as of yet.

She clicks the door open - all confident and determined to face even the biggest git of century - and starts at the sight. A member from Housekeeping, indeed, is standing before her with a huge bouquet of the most beautiful Coral roses she has ever seen. Her mouth falls open.

The man clears his throat, making her look up at his plain brown eyes - similar to her own.

"These arrived an hour ago for you, Madam Granger. We thought it would be wise enough to not disturb your sleep. Our deepest apologies if this was possibly important and our act has offended."

She smiles, endlessly grateful at not having disturbed for something so stupid, and nods.  
"That was actually _very_ thoughtful of you, really. Thanks you very much."

Bowing humbly, the man hands the basket over to her before sauntering off. Not that she watches him retreat…

Hermione stands mesmerised at the beauty of what seem like two dozens of roses. Then she notices a card and holds her breath. Though she majorly knows who can be behind this, her heart flutters in dread as she thinks of the possibility of Fred making a way back into her life. Startled, she realises she hasn't thought about him for more than a month now. Ever since the New Year's Eve, actually.

Shutting the door, she impatiently pulls out the card without bothering to rest the heavy bunch at some place. The piece of green, Muggle scrapbook book paper makes her gasp. Her uncertainty and doubts are squished as her eyes fall on the immaculately, silver glitter pen written note.

 _This was all I was wanting to see you for. You have a way with being arrogant, you know. Going out of the way and avoiding people, yeah?_

 _Corals to thank you for what you did at the session, and I'm not on about only the well plotted questions you asked to lead me to relief. You saved me from deep rooted and planned humiliation, and I cannot thank you enough, really._

 _Not that you haven't figured already,_

 _-Draco._

 _And - this is a 'bunch of flowers' coming 'later', but not a proposal for a 'date', mind you._

Her sniggering turns into full blown laughter as she reads the last sentence. She proceeds to put the beautiful set of flowers at the windowsill in her living room that houses more of potted plants. Then, on second thought, she redirects to her bedroom and places it on the window there.

Spelling it with an unwithering charm, she smiles in satisfaction and places the card in the topmost drawer of her bedside chest. Then her smile falls as her heart thunders

She is _smiling_ and _laughing_ like silly over a gift from _Malfoy._ She gasps. Since when did their venomous blows turn _playful_?

 **ooo**

It is Alicia and Fred's wedding, day after tomorrow. _Cliché_ , Hermione thinks with scorn. She feels that people marrying on Valentine's day are actually _pathetic_ , of not plainly ridiculous. And then, the two in question have only been dating since two months. Ginny goes on to explain that Fred doesn't actually understand true love and is merely rebounding with Alicia, but shuts up when Hermione reminds her that she doesn't need any explanations because _she_ was the one who broke up and not him.

She knows she has been called in by Harry at the 12 Grimmauld Place that he now resides in, but she can't get herself to get up from her bed. She is too much tired after a day of nearly walking into Malfoy at the Supermarket and sneakily finding her way back home in two hours, than the usual one half.

But, she knows that _tiredness_ isn't the only thing keeping her. She doesn't really want to be with Harry on the day she has been informed about her ex's wedding by his girlfriend. He must surely know that Ginny came over to see her that morning, and she fears the sympathy that only Harry can dare to regard her with.

She makes her decision and write him a note about feeling off colour. She doesn't expect, but a reply comes within five minutes, stating that _it's okay_ , and he _understand_ s and that _it'll get better_.

Hermione groans. _Just_ what she _didn't_ want.

 **ooo**

The marriage - quite unbelievably - turns out to be a quiet affair, including only the family members and Harry and Neville and Andromeda and Percy's girlfriend. At least that is what the Daily Prophet says.

She doesn't go, of course, because she feels that she must respect Fred's emotions so much as to not be obvious about how unaffected she is by him getting married. The irony isn't missed by her.

 **ooo**

She is walking over the freshly fallen February snow when she hears rustling behind her. Some lethal, war-induced instinct in her tells her that the biggest git she knows alive, is following her. She weighs the pros and cons of busting him and being embarrassed if it turns out to be someone else. And, rightly so, the pros of busting him outweigh all else.

Taking a breath from the frosty, fogged air, she hunches her shoulders around her ear muffs and stops. Interestingly, the rustling stops too. She smirks to herself.

Turning her neck as casually as possible, to a side, she raises amused eyebrows. "Good morning to you too, Malfoy."

A gasp sounds and she turns in time to see him climb out from the bushes marking the boundary to the park which was once covered in Australian grass but now displays a beautiful sheet of soft, fresh snow.

"Hello, Granger," he mumbles, put off, as he dusts himself clean from all the twigs, leaves and snowflakes gathered over him. He is more disheveled than she has ever seen him but looks, strangely, pretty much more nicely dressed than their previous meetings since the beginning of his stay in the Muggle world.

She cannot keep in her amusement as he mutters oaths under his breath and feels about his hair for twigs that aren't there. She knows she is grinning even before he pouts at her. Wait. _Pout_?

She blinks, and he is indeed pouting like a child who cannot reach over to some shelf at a height, to extract the jar of his favourite candy. She guffaws, then.

He huffs, furiously rubbing at his already mussed hair with both hands. She can bet that the best quality conditioner won't tame the porcupine shell he has created over his head. But she knows that he'll somehow be able to do that… And, _no_ , she _isn't_ jealous. Or even envious.

She distracts herself. "Care to explain why you were following me, Malfoy?"

His expressions morph into those that she would give off to people that ask most obvious questions. She wonders what _she_ has done to receive them. "Are you _serious_ , Granger? What else choice have you left me, if I may ask?"

She actually _likes_ the deep blue cargo pants he is wearing, despite the overly greased mud and leaves on it. Then she looks up to ensure that he's still busy with rearranging his hair, before she admires the beauty of the black, corduroy jacket that she can bet is a _Timothy Everest_. She wonders what he's done to be donned with such fine clothing.

"No, well," she responds when she finds him frowning at her while her eyes rake over his jacket. "But there's no _need_ to, either. Is there?"

He nods, and she feels like laughing at his impossible attitude. "I wanted to properly thank the one prosecutor who didn't participate in the slaughter of me, with her partners - doing quite the opposite, actually - and you didn't so much as give me an _opportunity_ , Granger. I was so-"

"I didn't need you to," she mutters but knows he wouldn't pay attention.

"-irritated by the time that silly example of a human being - supposedly your Assistant, or something - came up to inform-"

"He isn't my Assistant. Nor _something._ " He doesn't pause, and she knew he wouldn't.

"-me that you've _actually_ left. I mean - _heck_ , Granger, what the hell are you running away from?"

She is uncertain at first, about whether he has finished, but then he releases a white puff of breath and she knows he has. Then she is uncomfortable. Running away? She isn't doing that. Well, not _exactly_. That is what she tells him.  
"I'm running away from your incredulously _generous_ behaviour, Malfoy. It is just _so strange_ that it becomes eerie at times." She thinks she sees his face contorting into hurt, but he rolls his eyes so soon after, that she may have imagined it altogether. "And you did send me flowers, which I accepted."

He nods, shutting his eyes concedingly and she wants to punch his arrogant, pointy nose. "I'm talking about _before_ that."

Of course he is. But - has he lost his mind? "You see, the word _before_ holds as much significance as you've given it. However, what is the point following me around _now_? Sure you've thanked and I've accepted."

Malfoy shrugs, pushing his gloved hands into his jacket's pockets. Hermione realises that she's gloveless. "I was just curious about _what_ was happening in your life that was keeping you so bloody busy."

She gapes for full five seconds at him. _What_?

"Do-" She clears her throat as her voice cracks, "Don't sneak around me, again, and stop being privy. There's nothing other than the fact that I _don't want_ to be associated with the likes of you."

Her nose held high, she blatantly overlooks the hurt layering his face as she turns and walks off - thinking about the day she broke up with Fred. The sense? It feels almost the same - the annoying, sick feeling in her stomach at having willingly hurt an individual - and different as that day, at the same time.

The difference being, she feels guilty today.

* * *

 _PLEASE Review if you find this any good. PLEASE Review if you don't. Whatever it maybe, Review._

 _The rest to be up sooner than you'd think. This is technically 2/5th of the story done. The remaining 3/5th maybe up at once - or if Writers' Block caught up, it would be divided into two._

 _xoxo_

 _Aishwarya._

* * *

 _Obviously, this shall continue. Would you rather I left it at this? Uh, sorry, lame joke. Don't let your opinion of the story be affected by the jerk writer, okay?_


	2. Two

_Hello._

 _As I'd promised, the next part is here and pretty much fast. This is about 200 words longer than the previous._

 _And - rating's_ **_upgraded._**

 _This chapter has a few F-bombs, I guess, along with the elements of T-rating. Apart from that, I planned on extending this a bit and decided to include smut. Well, yeah?_

 _The simple thing - I turned eighteen not more than five months ago, and after gaining access to M-rated Dramione, I favourited the thing. But I'm never over-explicit, to tell you. This chapter, though, **doesn't carry any** of it._

 _NOTE: **Guide to Basic Healing Spells for Muggle Ailments** by_ Alvira Donalds _, belongs to me. Alvira has contacted me to get it published by the next week. Who's Alvira? Oh, come on! She's obviously a figment of my imagination! Lol._

 _So, **one more** similar, or slightly longer, part to go._

* * *

 **Two**

* * *

On the day before Draco Malfoy's last day at punishment, Hermione decides to hide away at Harry's.

Harry is—predictably— _paranoid_ when she tells him the cause of her staying the night, and the plans of staying in the entire next day too.

"But, _why_ , 'Mione?" and, "Has he done something to harm you, 'Mione?" and, "What is it that you're _not_ telling me, 'Mione?"

She swears and screams, tells him that she's merely frustrated, and doesn't want a grateful-Malfoy standing at her doorsteps, with a _Thank you_ note. Harry shuts up, then.

They call over Ginny to join them for the day—and possibly to sleepover, too—because they can't stand their incomplete trio, with the nagging absence of a certain blue-eyed redhead. Harry asks her when was the last time she thought of _him,_ in a manner she supposes to be nostalgic. She scoffs. She does it every day. She does not tell him, though.

 **ooo**

Harry is unbelievably rejuvenated at eight of the morning, the next day, for a person who has stayed up till five hours ago and played _Wizard's Poker_ with a grumpy best friend and overzealous girlfriend. She tells him such.

"Oh please _no_ , Hermione," he winces, "don't remind me of how battered I'm feeling right now."

"Kingsley could excuse you for a day, you know," she muses.

Ginny rolls her eyes, handing a mug of coffee to either of them as she takes a seat next to Hermione at the kitchen table. "Please, 'Mione. As if tha'll make him skip a day."

Harry's goofy smile drops. "You guys _know_ what this Auror training means to me, don't you? This is my own way remembering him…"

Ginny smiles solemnly—the strong girl!—and nods. Hermione makes an effort of nodding too, drifting away in thoughts.

But Ginny doesn't let the quiet continue. In spite of her own sleepy state, she sighs and shakes her head at Hermione. Not that she is offended, but Hermione narrows her eyes for good measure.

"You're coming shopping with me, today," she declares into her coffee mug, closing her eyes and breathing in the aroma.

Harry chokes on his. "Wh- _what_? No! I'm—I'm _busy_ , okay? And then I'll be tired and—"

"Shut it, Harry!" Ginny gives him a tired look; he seems confused as he pushes his glasses back. "I'm talking to Hermione."

Hermione sighs.

 **ooo**

Hermione wants to yell out in frustration at what she witnesses when she's back to her apartment, past midnight.

A very shivering and very unconscious Draco Malfoy is sitting in a bundled heap against her door. His head is bent, face buried into the crook of his crossed arms over his knees. Hermione chokes on her breath when she sees his bare feet.

All thoughts of leaving him to rot off in cold are slip away.

Looking around, she stealthily extracts her wands from across the many layers of clothing on her. The temperature is sparsely over zero degrees, and she doesn't see a scenario where this man could _not_ be freezing to death.

She levitates him into her flat, praying for strength of bearing the git's attitude when he wakes up. Their last encounter had been far from pleasant, and she doesn't really know what to make of his appearance _now_.

Placing him on a couch in her living room, she flicks her wand and alights the fireplace. Then, tentatively, she disentangles his body. The moment her palm comes in contact with his cheek, she flinches away. He's _burning_ with fever.

She rushes into her bedroom and extracts the third, latest, volume of _Guide to Basic Healing Spells for Muggle Ailments_ by Alvira Donalds.

She kneels beside him, taking in his flimsy, light blue linen shirt and dark trousers. She doesn't understand why he is out on a death mission with no woolens. She doesn't want to think hard and understand. All she wishes to do is heal him out of his overly risen temperature, and then shove him out of the privacy of her house. She curses herself at her inability of living with a guilty conscience.

Her eyebrows furrow in concentration as the index finger of her left hands traces the complicated spells Alvira Donalds has written in the book. She takes in a deep breath, exhales, and focuses on the shut eyes of the ill—as mentioned—swiping her wand, hovering, across his forehead. After the required three times, she takes another breath and mutters the incantation.

A faint glow of pale green appears on his forehead when she is done repeating the procedure five times. She sighs in relief.

As directed by Alvira, she rotates the wand in her hand and—clearly and loudly—speaks the absorbing spell. She watches in pride and fascination as the gathered green-glow brightens, and is sucked up by the tip of her wand. She rotates it once more and Malfoy's pristine forehead is as pale as she has always seen it.

The ball of light illuminating her wand's apex, fades off on it's own. She hums in satisfaction.

Getting up, she gathers a blanket from the adjoining armchair—the one she cuddles into, when insomnia sets in and she has to read through the night, by the fireplace—and spreads it over Malfoy's still unconscious and frail body.

After hesitating for a moment, she places her palm flat over his cheek. It is warm, yes, but of the temperature that it must have acquired due to lying next to the fireplace for the past half hour. Her hand lingers as she sits back, mesmerized by the manner in which his magic emanates and causes sparks to be felt over her palm.

He murmurs something, sleepily—sounding more like a grunt; _ngh_ —and she pulls her hand away.

Quickly straightening from her stoop, she makes her way out of the living room. But as she steps into her bedroom, all insecurities kick in and she realizes the gravity of her state.

She has _Draco Malfoy_ , in her _living room,_ soundly _asleep_ , after she _herself healed him._

Darting back into the room containing her unwelcome guest, she curls over the loveseat kept across from the couch he lays in. The coffee table separating them doesn't feel enough.

She knows she wouldn't sleep, and she doesn't try. Summoning a duvet and a copy of her next case—to be dealt with, three days letter—she sighs at the warmth around her and tries to ignore the the bane of her existence, asleep not ten steps away from her.

Sighing again, she realizes she has used a _massive_ amount of magic in her Muggle settings today, and she can actually be severed if discovered. She feels she can worry about it later, and even then doesn't realize how much sleepy she really is.

 **ooo**

The first conscious thought coming to her is that her bed feels weird. The second is that her bedside, Muggle alarm clock hasn't woken her up.

Blearily, she forces her eyelids to give way. Then she squeezes them shut even more fiercely. The amount of light flooding her room is worse than how much floods her living room. She groans in agony.

She can swear she hears a responding groan.

Her brain tracks the sound back to the one person she doesn't survive a day without thinking about. And then his blue eyes are lighting up and smiling brightly at her. She smiles back. He beckons to her; she is elated that he wants to hug her despite whatever rotten went through between her and his own _brother_. She starts off towards him, lifting her foot, and…

Her eyes snap open, the flooding light bothers her again and she brings a hands up to shelter her eyes. Then she finds herself enveloped in sweat and overcome with heavy pants. Throwing the duvet off, she thinks back to what had felt like a _real_ experience.

She breathes in and out, deeply through her nose—trying to relax her bundled up nerves and relating herself back with the bitter reality.

 _No Hermione. No._ NO _! He isn't here… He_ wasn't _. He's gone...forever. He would_ never be _back._

As senses kick in, she wheezes and heaves. She blinks rapidly, trying to catch her breath. And _that_ is when her eyes catch something else.

She swears as she sees Draco Malfoy sleeping on the couch opposite to her. Events of yesterday register to her, slowly, as she stands and walks up to the sleeping blond. Alvira Donalds never mentioned anything about the patient sleeping off for hours. She sniffs and scowls at him, before making her way into the kitchen.

She isn't a great cook, nor is she fond of cooking. She does enough to sustain herself when she feels too extinguished to go out. And right now, she is in such a frenzy that she cannot decide whether her brain hurts because of the vision-cum-nightmare she has had—though she wouldn't call it a _nightmare_ —or whether her heart hurts by the hopelessly impossible situation she had witnessed.

More than anything, she thinks about how much lesser have things have begun to affect her. She reaches for the can of white chocolate in her cabinet and extracts the new, sealed pack of flour she purchased with Ginny, yesterday.

She thinks of Ginny. He was her brother. She doesn't pretend to understand what went over with Ginny, because she plainly cannot. She is an only child, and she doesn't know what it is like to have a bunch of siblings whom you care for as much as your parents do for your.

She has no fair control over her thought process currently, and so she isn't able to do much when her mind takes her to her own parents. She hasn't even _seen_ them after it all ended. She had promised herself to visit them when she got hold of herself, hours after Ron's death. She had been traumatized into numbness back then, and knew that it was to continue.

Placing the waffle-maker over her Muggle hotplate, she wonders if now the time has come.

 **ooo**

She glares as he repeatedly rubs his eyes before finally widening them. Then he is swallowing. She counts six movements of his Adam's apple, before he clears his throat.

"Gr— _Granger_ ," his voice sounds as groggy as he looks, and his appearance is pretty much ruffled by the more than twelve hour sleep he has woken up from, "are you… You're _real_?"

Hermione wants to punch him.

" _What_ does that mean, Malfoy? Have you been— _do_ you bloody _fantasize_ about me?" she hisses, leaning over the coffee table, ready to lunge at him if he gets the slightest bit out of order.

His eyes widen further—in horror—and she can't decide whether it is the horror at her choice of accusation or… at being figured out. She terribly, _terribly_ wishes for the latter to be impossible.

"Malfoy?" she impatiently sighs.

He blinks, turning away from her. Then he jerks and looks around. "Where are we?"

" _I_ am where I ought to be," she snarls, "but _you_ are an unwelcome guest in my flat."

He groans.

"Oh, _no_ ," Shutting his eyes, he rubs at his forehead, his face displaying similar displeasure to what she had experienced last night on finding him balled up at her doorstep.

"Alright," she straightens, her voice and face hardening as she goes businesslike. "Enough of this." She takes a deep breath and sets him under a very accusatory stare, because, well, she _is_ accusing him, "I found you sitting outside and _next to_ my flat, when I arrived home late, last night. You were on a death mission, I'm supposing, because you were barefooted and without woolens," she barely says before he shakes his head, but she doesn't pause long enough for him to interrupt. "You were burning, so I took you in and…" she pauses, unsure of whether to tell him about her using magic.

His eyebrows raise and eyes narrow, and she realizes that the point where she has chosen to pause, allows all sorts of imaginations. She shakes her head in resignation.

"I healed you, I meant. And then you've slept," she ignored the look of disbelief he gives her, "And _now_ , it is past four of the evening, and I'd prefer you to leave."

He hums a breath out.

"You keep giving me opportunities to thank you. Why?"

She is so much taken aback that she actually gasps. And here people thought that giving Draco Malfoy a three month's wand-less exile could clear him off his snark. She knows it flows beneath his skin and that there's no remedy.

"Did you not get the part where I asked you to _leave_?"

He shrugs in what she knows he wants to be an innocent manner. But his bad luck that she has known his nonsense—act or not— for all her life. The _cockroach_!

"Just wondering, Granger, don't be jumpy," H

He leans back on the armrest of the couch and gives her a sideway glance. "And tell me this, are you not even in the slightest curious about actually _what_ was that I was doing, waiting before your flat, et cetera?"

She blinks, because she has caught a word. And also because she is—has been—more than curious about what he was here for, last night.

"Did you say _waiting_? You were _waiting_ for me, Malfoy?" she asks, knowing she sounds exasperated, but, _damn it._

He smirks. "I know you're greatly enthralled by the revelation, Granger, but don't get your knickers in a twist, please."

She huffs. He's probably not overdoing by making that comment because, as she supposed, she did sound panicked. Still, she snorts.

"Of course. And now, Draco Malfoy, would you do the honors of spilling out what you wanted?"

He makes a fake hurt face.

"Ouch. What I _wanted_ , eh? You think way too highly of me, I see." She considers the chances of the hurt face _not_ being fake. "Why can I not have been here to merely see the Prosecutor—"

" _Interrogator_ ," she corrects, and he doesn't pay attention, as always.

"—who saved my ass at the hearing that decided the next six months of my life? And why won't I especially want to do it on the day I was to be given back my wand and freedom into the Wizarding world?"

She stops to think for a moment. As well as she has known Draco Malfoy, she has been proved correct about his words—sentences—being well measured and calculated. Going by that, she cannot help but question, " _Was to be given_? Were you not provided with your wand?"

"Sort of," he shrugs a shoulder nonchalantly, "I didn't make it to the Auror Office. It isn't their fault."

She gapes. He came over to see her and _missed the event of having his wand back_? She cannot decide whether to be flattered or disgusted. She settles over _pissed_.

"Are you actually _insane_ , Malfoy? You missed the event to come and brood over my door? And I wasn't even home!"

"I didn't think you won't be."

Something about his downcast eyes tell her that he was really disappointed at the discovery. But—Merlin's ass, he _doesn't have to_! She doesn't understand, at _all_ , what the git is playing at, but some gut-instincts warn her to not lash out at him if she wants to avoid the awful guilt she'd endured when she'd offended him in timid self-defense, few days back. Somehow, she doesn't really ease in the excuse of 'self-defense' though.

She goes softer, however, "But that _was_ insane, anyways. I'm not even your defending lawyer, Malfoy," she purses her lips when he scoffs, staring into the unlit fireplace. "Why don't you express the mass of this gratitude to 'Dromeda, instead?"

He grimaces. " _Please,_ Granger. Andromeda was serving me because Potter asked her to. Must have begged, even, if you ask me," his lips curl in a sneer. "She didn't even wait long enough for me to exit the courtroom, that day."

Hermione doesn't understand. Does he think _she_ did it out of compassion for him? Okay, after his knocking at her door, maybe yes, but not initially. She finds it necessary to clarify.

She clears her throat, slightly uncomfortable at him being so open about something as private as disappointment in a person. "You must know, I was appointed the case by Shacklebolt, Malfoy. I hardly did it out of empathy."

He snorts, an ugly, toxic sneer taking place at his face. "For one, you weren't _defending_ me, Granger. It _was_ generous of you to go softer when you weren't _supposed to_." He clenches his teeth, then, "And two, _you_ aren't my mother's bloody _sister_!"

Oh. _Oh._ Now she does understand.

After the apologies, Andromeda had become rather fond and friendly of Narcissa Malfoy—what with all the reconciliation, and stuff. But the woman had been impossibly cold towards Lucius Malfoy and the slimy git sitting opposite to Hermione, right now. In retrospect, Hermione thinks that the bigoted father and son had very well deserved it. Andromeda had always been very much repulsed, in fact. Hermione is actually confused at how she forgot about the fact, right then at the hearing.

"Right…" She frowns. She really doesn't know what to say. She looks up at him, again, and then recalls something else that she has been curious about. "Um, Malfoy?"

He raised the eyebrow to her side of his face, while silently pouts into the fireplace. He really _has_ caught an awful habit, she thinks.

"Why are you in… _these_?" she asks, pointing to his clothes. As his confused face turns to her, she elaborates, "Why are you without woolens, I mean. You were frozen last night, and weren't too far from dead, had I come merely an hour later."

He smiles wryly at her. She feels chills of fear at the foreign expression on his face. She averts her eyes, as casually as possible, looking into the direction of the kitchen. He chuckles, ever so lightly, and her eyes snap back to find him looking at his hands.

He sighs, "I really _am_ thankful, Granger." She thinks she is blushing,and she feels like smashing her head into a wall. "About _this_ ," he gestures vaguely at himself before his eyes again find their favourite destination; the hearth, "well, this is actually all I have. I mean, the Muggle clothes Ministry provided me with, were taken back as soon as those two Aurors came to collect me from my Muggle flat."

She is gaping, and she _knows_ she is gaping; she cannot help it. "They… they took the _clothes_ away too?" That is barbaric! And… _cruel,_ even for someone like _him_!

"Even for someone like _me_ , yeah?" he scoffs. Her eyes widen as she realizes that she has spoken that aloud. "It _is_ barbaric, yes, but they find me worthy of it."

"Malfoy," she states in all seriousness, the campaigner in her jumping to life, "leaving off a person—who didn't even have his wand, I must remind you—in London's February, _without_ woolens is _inhuman_! No one deserves it, damn it!" And she is livid.

He looks at her with amused eyes. "Does that mean you are going to be kind enough to lend me something warm?"

At this moment, her pity at this poor, deprived soul can make her purchase an entire wardrobe for him. "Jeez, Malfoy, _of course_!"

He blinks. She thinks she is overreacting again. But then, she has spent a much, much long span of time _without_ reacting at all. Then he shrugs.

She takes a deep breath, chanting this man's name in her head like a mantra to remind herself of _who_ she is actually dealing with, and hence to keep her compassion in check. Then she decides that she wants to try and treat him like a human again, the way she had when she invited him up for a private meeting before his session at Wizengamot. She looks at him.

"There's bacon and bread and cheese in the kitchen," she mutters, before she can change her mind. Though she is fairly certain she won't. "Help yourself?"

He blinks at her quite owlishly.

"I warmed them about half hour ago. They'd still be edible," she raises her brows when his expressions remain blank.

Then, without preamble, he gets up land eaves for the kitchen. She exhales deeply, shaking her head at what she has gotten herself into.

Before she can plan out her next series of actions to him, the fireplace crackles. Someone— _Harry_ —is floo-calling her.

In an instant, she is on her knees, all ears.

"Harry?"

"There has been this catastrophe, Hermione," he sounds panicked and her forehead beads with sweat. "Malfoy was to come to collect his wand and final release papers from the Auror Office, yesterday. He didn't turn up."

She knows he has paused for emphasis, but she uses the time to squash the urge of looking over shoulder, into the kitchen where she can hear the clinking and clattering of her china dishes and steel cutlery emerging from.

He takes a breath. "We don't think he has run off or something—even though that can't be put past him—because people here still have his wand. Andromeda has no clue, and his landlord told Auror Stuart that he'd once sent a thank-you flower bunch to you too."

She feels guilty, embarrassed, deceiving, cheating. She sighs, "And?"

"Do you know his whereabouts?" he doesn't miss a beat, "You know, all this is—in fact—not any of _my_ business. Dawlish, here, is being a girl because he thinks Malfoy is somewhere in the Caribbean by this point of time. And so, he has called the training off for a week and is planning to launch ridiculous, meaningless search missions if Draco doesn't turn in by dawn tomorrow. I am not up for any of this nonsense— _at all._

She is feeling infinitely irrational, and she blames her question on that. "Does this mean that they're planning on _increasing his punishment_ because he didn't turn up something that was causing good to solely _him_?"

There are moments of silence and she thinks Harry is at the verge of turning all skeptical. But he sighs.

"Do you know something about him, Hermione?"

She gulps, "I might."

He sighs again. "Do yourself a favor, Hermione, instead of hiding him, drop him off to the Auror Office."

She has opened her mouth to yell in indignation but Harry ends the call and she can only huff.

"You'll drop me?"

She jumps at the drawl from behind her. Then sighing, she nods. "Probably."

"Does Potter think you're sleeping with me?" he sounds incredulous, and she hasn't broken his neck off for that mere reason.

She turns to face him with tired eyes. He is munching on a bagel and bacon sandwich. She momentarily thinks about how much the exile has benefited him.

Then she shuts her eyes. "I… I don't think he _did_. But he may be drawing that conclusion now."

He rolls his eyes. "That is why no one came forward for defending me. The good ones are all females, and see how being a mere generous Interrogator is splashing filth on you," he sounds pissed, "and this was just your best friend."

She feels oddly at calm with the entire episode. She blames it on the already rolling turmoils in her head. She silently gets up and walks to her bedroom.

She stops at the door. "We'll be leaving, now. I have a couple of male jumpers, I'll let you don them."

They are Fred's, but she doesn't have to tell _Malfoy_ about that. He'll probably presume them to be belonging to Ron, and she doesn't mind. As long as he's alive till they reach the Ministry, she really doesn't care about what his presumptions are.

Somehow, she knows she is telling that to _herself_ , more than anyone else.

 **ooo**

An hour's car ride brings them to the nearest Public Floo. She reminds herself off purchasing floo-powder the next time she visits Diagon Alley.

She floos first.

The atrium of the Ministry is packed. It is around four of the evening and most of the offices close by this time. She has to wait for five minutes before a platinum head with a bright blue turtleneck walks out of the fireplace next to the one she had come through.

She raises an eyebrow, he shrugs.

Then they spend the next fifteen minutes in getting to the Second Level, through an extremely tiring elevator ride.

She sighs as she spots Harry pacing just before the elevator gates. He looks up as the elevator stops with a thud, and people begin to march out. His gaze is searching, and her heart warms. She loves this man too much. Not more than Ginny, though, she thinks as she recalls the amazing girlfriend of her one best friend. They haven't gone really obvious, but she has an idea of how often Ginny visits Harry.

His eyes stop on her and he heaves a huge sigh of relief. Then they travel again, stopping slightly above her head. He nods curtly and she guesses the blond standing behind her does the same.

On getting room, she walks out and grabs Harry's wrist. Pulling him away from the sea of people, she looks around for Malfoy. He is next to her in less than five seconds and she wonders what all merits do long legs and and stiff muscles provide.

"Malfoy," Harry looks at him with a hint of frown, "you are _immediately_ required at Auror Dawlish's cabin."

Malfoy is skeptic and give Hermione a wary glance. She doesn't know why, but she feels like he is seeking reassurance. She nods. And, _shit_ , he nods back and walks away.

"Harry," she tries a smile at him.

"No, Hermione," he sounds tired. She flinches. "we are not having any talks until you explain what the hell all this means."

She sighs and tells him what she witnessed after she came back from his place, two days back. He is surprised at Malfoy's gratitude—Merlin help her, _she is too_!—but doesn't dig further into why she helped him instead of calling over to some authority. She starts at the thought. She hasn't thought of the option till this very moment. Then she wonders about how long it is till Harry continues with this habit of letting go. She muses whether he'll worsen when his training finishes.

"He won't be long," Harry tells her with a glance towards the cabin Malfoy has vanished past.

She does a double take. Why is he telling her _this_? That somehow confirms Malfoy's doubts over Harry implying her and Malfoy of being into something more than professional. She grits her teeth.

But her jaw slackens as another thought knocks at her brain. What does _really_ happen next?

"Um, Harry," she begins, and the pair of familiar green, spectacled eyes sweep over to fix her under a questioning gaze. "I _absolutely_ don't know why he was being ridiculous and thanking me frantically for something that I did out of Shacklebolt's orders, but, I'm fairly certain that I won't be driving him back to my flat with me."

Harry's eyes flash, she cannot keep a finger at what goes through them. "That's alright. You did more than what was expected out of you."

Not satisfactory. She needs to figure out an inconspicuous way of asking Harry about where is Malfoy going to stay. She cannot go direct. He'd not reacted as per her, when she had been direct about what the man would be facing when Malfoy came here. She is somewhat concerned about Malfoy, yes, but is not in a position to explain her reasons. _Heck_ , she doesn't _know_ , let alone explaining it to Harry!

"I don't even know whether the Minister would allow him what I'm planning for Malfoy," Harry mumbles, making her jump.

She notices, then, how much fidgety he is being. She feels awkward. What is _Harry_ planning for Malfoy?

"What is it?" she asks quietly.

He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes with a handkerchief which is definitely designed by Molly, going by the embroidered initials of his name at a corner of the red cotton in gold.

He takes a breath, and speaks with eyes still closed, "I'm taking him with me. To Grimmauld, I mean," She gapes as her mind turns off. "His Manor is out of reach; the other Wizarding societies are not gonna take him in easily. I figured that _this_ would be the most handy thing to do."

She realizes that the reason Harry is being short tempered and frowning unnecessarily can very well be his unease at this decision, and not irritation over his suspicions at her and Malfoy's unprofessional-ism—which is a preposterous thought, really—and she is immensely relieved. She cannot quite understand Harry right now, anyhow.

She blinks and then clears her throat.

"But, Harry…" she trails off at the look he gives her. He knows what she is going to ask. But, who _wouldn't_ question when Harry Potter decides to take Draco Malfoy as a housemate? She clears her throat again. "And? Has Malfoy agreed?"

He frowns irately at her. "I haven't planned out _bollocks_ , Hermione," he _sounds_ irritated too. Great. " _Obviously_ he has agreed. How much of choice does he have, anyway?"

She frowns. "Ginny is fine with it?"

He looks at her incredulously. "What has _Ginny_ got to do with this?"

She thinks it over. Of course Ginny _doesn't_ have to do anything at all with any of this. But then, she knows why she is asking these silly questions. He has refused to tell her why is he taking Malfoy in, and so she wants to question him about every other thing relating to the issue. Yet, she has again managed to utter nonsense that would tend to make Harry doubtful of her equation with Malfoy.

But Harry is Harry and Harry smiles. "It will be alright, 'Mione. We won't kill each other, if that's what you're wondering."

She rolls her eyes. "I hope not," she tries another smile. She is increasingly becoming better at the act, it seems.

"You should go, Hermione."

She searches but comes up with no excuse to stay. Nodding, she moves to the.

As the channels begin to drag shut, she sees a slightly rumpled Draco Malfoy making an exit from the Head Auror's office.

Their eyes meet and she nods. He looks confused but nods. Then as he notices Harry, his frown converts into something seeming very much like… _hurt_? But the elevator has begun with it's bumpy ride back, and she is getting farther away and can't be sure.

Once more, she feels guilty over something she did to Draco Malfoy.

 **ooo**

She blinks at the parchment for quite a long time. For the life of her, she cannot interpret the meaning of a dinner being held up at Harry's, including the two inhabitants, Ginny and herself, when it has been merely two days since Draco Malfoy moved in.

She fears some severe destruction.

She dresses up in a deep purple shirt and neon green corduroys. She desperately wants to seem casual, but still cannot get herself to wear the dresses she had longed to wear on dates with Ron.

She has to Apparate and berates herself again at not visiting the Diagon Alley as she looks regretfully at her fireplace. She finds herself in the foyer of 12 Grimmauld Place, as soon as the twisting, rolling motion ceases.

"Hermione!"

She hears Ginny's squeal a moment before a flare of red hair descends upon her face and cascades down gracefully. She hugs Ginny back.

"Good to see you, Ginny."

Ginny steps away, her face extremely grave. Before Hermione can frown, though, the younger girl smiles, "You too."

Her flailing skirt is black and the off-sleeved chemise she wears matches the shade of auburn red that is her hair. Hermione smiles at her.

"You look really good, Gin," she says as they twine fingers and walk further into the house.

Ginny sighs. "I hope," she mumbles. As Hermione raises a knowing, amused eyebrow, Ginny blushes fiercely and is found sputtering.

Hermione smiles again. "That's okay, Ginny. I understand."

And she does. Harry and Ginny _should_ carry on with their lives. Harry is going to be an Auror, and he is going to make a wonderful one. Ginny, Hermione knows, will prefer auditioning for the _Holyhead Harpies_ once she turns eighteen, contrary to what people gossip about her dreams of turning into Molly Weasley. And the two of them d _eserve_ to move on into being what they dream of. This, as a matter of fact, includes their being with the other as well.

Hermione is shocked when she walks onto Harry and Malfoy laughing and lounging on a couch next to the fireplace. She immediately recognizes Harry's pale blue shirt on Malfoy. Harry himself is—oddly—wearing a black, Muggle, full sleeved T-shirt with a peace symbol in grey, along with _Choose Life_ across it in red. How very fitting, she glumly thinks.

"Good evening, Hermione."

She looks up from his chest to see him smiling at her. She nods with a tiny curve to her own lips. Then she looks at Malfoy. He is looking rather distractedly past her knees. Yet, she nods to him.

Surprisingly, his silver eyes make a contact then, and he smirks. She feels heat creeping up her cheeks, but is rather eased to ensure that the other two haven't noticed the silly exchange.

"I've ordered your Muggle-favorite Pizza, 'Mione," Ginny tells her as she walks up to the dining table.

Hermione follows. " _You_ did?"

Ginny shrugs. "Borrowed Harry's phone, but that's it with the help. _I_ dealt with the stupid man on the line and _I_ struggled with choosing the most appropriate toppings, yes."

Hermione almost chuckles. "God, Ginny, you're such an effort."

"And she has _cooked_ us pasta, too," Harry grins and then does Hermione notice that she's the only one standing.

The dining table comprises of eight seats, now, as Harry has removed the two head-chairs. She doesn't understand why, but she feels it is better this way. She settles next to Ginny, opposite Harry.

"You _cook_ , Ginny?"

Her eyes snap up from the Domino's pizza to Malfoy. He seems amused as he glances at Ginny.

"Um, yeah, actually," Ginny is blushing, but not from unease. Hermione stomachs the information. "In fact I rather like it, I'd say."

Malfoy nods and then there is silence as everyone devours the deliciousness of corn and mushroom, extra cheese pizza that Ginny has treated them with. Between the bites, Hermione catches Harry looking fondly at the redhead next to her. She let's out a secret smile of her own.

Then Ginny clears her throat. "Well, Hermione is rather _not_ a fan of cooking."

Hermione chokes. Where did _this_ come from? She looks at Ginny with bulged eyes.

Ginny smiles sheepishly before shrugging. "That isn't a hidden fact, 'Mione. Malfoy ought to know what our dear _know-it-all_ here can _not_ do."

Somehow, the way she places the utterly _pathetic_ pun, makes Hermione actually giggle. Though she _does_ roll her eyes. Harry laughs along but Malfoy is giving her a bewildered look. She locks gaze with him. He doesn't say a word, though she is certain he's planning to.

Then he speaks, all easy and contempt free.

"Well… The bacon you set the other day—that didn't suggest your disinterest, Granger," he cocks an eyebrow.

She is at a loss of words. She feels that this particular incident is too private to be broached like this. It was a tender moment where she'd found him vulnerable and had herself loosened up too. She feels distressed.

"Uh, well, I don't _despise_ the idea, either," she shrugs with a slight, involuntary frown.

Harry chuckles. "Sure you don't. And that is why you go on to eat _once_ in an entire day, and that too you try to hunt down a restaurant for. I guess you just don't like _your_ kitchen, 'Mione, that's all."

She is appalled at first, but worse than that is she dumbstruck when she really acknowledges how they're lightly joking and teasing around so damn _freely_. And then, this night—after more than ten months passing by since the War—Hermione actually feels the reality of their freedom for Voldemort. And faintly, from Ron's death too.

 **ooo**

She doesn't realize it is the second day of the third month, until she has retired for the day—after having interrogated two cases at a go, and then spent three hours with the file of her next case—and has flooed back home. Yes, she remembered and borrowed floo powder from Harry, day before yesterday, when she came back from the _amazingly refreshing_ dinner at Grimmauld.

As the reality of the scenario sinks in, her knees wobble and she falls in a heap next to the loveseat. She heaves, but no amount of breath eases the ache in her gut. Her eyes stare unblinking at the calendar that she hangs in her kitchen, and is visible from the fireplace which is directly opposite to it. It was a simple Muggle article, but Fred charmed it to project the current date to appear embossed.

 _ **2nd March**_

She's forgotten Ron's birthday.

Her body-wracking wails begin from silent tears and mild sobs. She screams and pulls at her hair. She is frantic but she doesn't care. Mere ten months, and she _forgot_ Ron's birthday. And here she was taunting people of forgetting about Ron's person.

Then a pair of hands are clutching her by upper arms and settling her on the loveseat, almost caging.

She thrashes and hits Harry with all of her might when he uses his bent thighs to awkwardly straddle her. The idiot forgot, too!

He shoves and shakes her in efforts of making her hear what he is speaking. But she can't. She can't and she keeps hitting him because she's mad.

Yes, she _does_ want him to move on in life with Ginny, but that never meant forgetting Ron! Harry's been so bloody selfishly _busy_ that he doesn't even think—

" _HERMIONE_!"

The yell invades past her tattered senses and she screws her eyes shut. " _Please_ ," she whimpers, "go _away_ … Leave me _alone,_ Harry…"

But the grip tightens exponentially and she yelps in pain. She opens her eyes. They have adjusted to the dim light better, and she can make out the shadows on his face that suggest how harshly is he scowling.

Just great.

She ceases with the quivering and looks away in resignation. She cannot look at at him when all she can see in his gray eyes is disbelief and accusation.

Wait.

 _Gray_ eyes?

She looks back up with a gasp as the scowling face sighs and shakes. And then, before she can jump away, Malfoy grabs her the sides of her face and pulls her to him.

His lips seal over her parted ones, and then they kiss her.

She blinks into darkness as he wraps his arms tightly around her waist and moans into her mouth. She feels foggy, but can make out that the sound was her name. Her _given_ name.

His lips suck at hers with a caressing tenderness, and then she has abandoned every coherent thought.

She clutches his hair in tiny fists and kisses him back. She nips at his lips, sucks at his tongue while he doesn't deter and keeps on caressing her with impossible patience. She is very much aggravated, but, and her nips turn into violent gnashes of teeth over his full lower lip as she rakes her nails over his scalp.

That is when he pulls back and literally drags the hold of her lips away from his. She is out of breath and her panting matches his. She glares into his silver eyes with challenge—daring him to mock at her.

But he _does_. He smirks at her with those pair of red, swollen, wet lips.

That is when she snaps.

In the matter of a minute, she slaps him, grabs him for a fleeting, final, suckling kiss and then slaps him _really_ hard. Before he can even comprehend the events, she has already shoved him into the fireplace and screamed Harry's address.

 **ooo**

She sits in her bathtub till the evening of the next day. She had tried getting out when dawn broke, but had found herself incapable. Her bones and muscles felt saggy and over-tensed at the same time. Still do, on fact. She looks at the almost invisible sliver of orange-yellow glow falling over her porcelain basin and sighs. It really is dusk.

There is a crevice in the otherwise darkened window pane that serves as the only source of nature's light into the bathroom. And she hasn't switched on the Muggle artificial LEDs and tubes.

She had psychotically put up anti-Apparition wards all over her house, before placing the most complicated of locks she knows over the floo connection and her main gate, after she finally had recollected her senses—about an hour post Malfoy's departure last night.

And then she had come and sat in her bathtub—clad in her Wizengamot dress robes—without bothering with eating or sleeping. Almost a complete day has passed by now.

She doesn't know what she _really_ is guilty over—forgetting Ron's birthday, or kissing Malfoy. And she doesn't really care, to be true. All she can conclude is that it is June, all over again, and she's back into the devastating state of brooding.

Though she cannot understand how she had allowed that stupid _kiss_ to happen. She never allowed proximity with Fred, after all. She guesses she was far too irrational and panicked than what she supposed she was.

It may seem that she is blaming it on Malfoy—which isn't a _complete_ lie—but she's aware that she is equally guilty. Sure he was the one to grab her in a vulnerable state, but _she_ had been the one to accept it with ferocity and respond.

She feels tired. She is really, really worn out of all the analyzing business. But she is still as clueless and numb as she had been a day ago.

Her thought processes finally begin to retire with that thought. Happy at the freedom prevailing in her brain, she finds herself feeling really sleepy. Sighing, she snuggles further into the crook of her elbows, into the woolen-softness of her robes, and shuts her eyes.

* * *

 _I got **two** Reviews, **two** Favourites and **three** Follows, and I am happy. Do Review more, though!_

 _xoxo_

 _Aishwarya._

* * *

 _Just a **single** more part before we're done_.


	3. Three

_Hello, people._

 _I'm such a bad person, i don't even know how to apologize. I'm sucker at keeping promises, period. I broke my promise of updating Misunderstanding daily, because I wanted to finish this off. Without. Disturbance. And yet one-fifth portion remains._

 _Anyways._

 _This was dragged on and on, and I didn't quite realize when I'd reached 9K+ words. You see? I had to split the chapter into two._

 _Right. One more after this._

 _Oh, Salazar! I hate myself!_

 _All the same, **infinite** thank you-s to all the lovely readers (and reviewers, and followers), who have paid attention to this._

 _Okay. Let's try—_

 _I'm_ **SORRY** _, people. I'm unbelievably late._

 _Here's hoping that the events of this chapter cover things up._ _The mature-piece that I'd promised comes with the next installment. Wait for it!_

 _Read on!_

* * *

 **Three**

* * *

Waking up to a scowling Harry, worried Ginny and uncomfortable Malfoy is quite overwhelming for Hermione. In utter frenzy, she is told how she fainted in her bathtub due to weakness entrapping her body, adding on to the already tender state of her brain, and how she has been out for eight days. She calculates it to be the Eleventh of March.

Then she notices that she's in her bed.

Harry apologizes for his misjudgment over sending Malfoy to check up on her when he himself went off to the Weasleys' dinner on Ron's birthday. He urges her to tell him about the supposedly _drastic occurrence that caused her to breakdown_ , but she keeps shaking her head, refusing to share that awfully embarrassing, intimate act between her and that familiar, blond, ex-victim of hers. Resigning, he asks her to take care, pecks the knuckles of her hands and leaves.

Ginny suggests her to take a Dreamless Sleep potion when she would decide to sleep. Hermione wants her to stay but knows that the girl isn't really much comfortable around her, and so she doesn't push. Ginny kisses her on the cheek and asks her to floo-call whenever she needs.

She inhales shakily when she notices the lone figure standing by her bed. Ginny notices. Her steps falter on her way out of the bedroom door.

"Um, I guess I'll wait till you take the potion," she murmurs awkwardly.

Hermione is more than grateful. Malfoy's surprised eyes jerk to Ginny. Smiling timidly, she shrugs. Malfoy sighs, looking at Hermione. She immediately looks away, startled at the seemingly understanding exchange taken place between him and Ginny. She fleetingly wonders if they have grown close during his stay at Harry's place, and maybe, _possibly_ , he has told Ginny about their kiss. Annoyed at herself for thinking of stupid possibilities, she discards those thoughts.

"Take care, Granger," he says quietly. Then he fumbles with another batch of expressing his gratefulness to her.

She looks at him with uncertainty, nodding, but not listening to a single word. Looking at him only reminds her of his flushed face and smirking, abused lips.

Her cheeks color and she looks away, again.

"Alright, then," he says, finally. "See you later, Ginny."

Ginny nods with a smile. Hermione's eyes still remain focused on the few black patches over her grey duvet. He sighs again.

When he leaves, she listens as he hovers on the other side of her shut bedroom door for some time before exiting the house.

Ginny eyes her in confusion, but wordlessly uncaps the phial of potion and forwards it to her.

Hermione gives her a withering, nervous glance. She shakes her head with a tiny, comforting smile. "Later, Hermione. You need to rest."

Taking her advice, Hermione downs the liquid and resigns to drifting off. Her brain isn't yet healed enough to ponder over the mess that her life has become.

 **ooo**

There's no one around when she wakes up from her delicious, dreamless sleep.

She gazes at the window and her eyes fall on the pot of coral roses she has received from Malfoy.

Malfoy.

She really doesn't want to think of his guilt-ridden, nervous, _fidgety_ presence, here, meager hours back. She doesn't want to think about _him_ , period.

She's no longer feeling tired, she is _nauseated_ instead. Her stomach is churning and her gaze isn't bloody _shifting_ from the sodden flowers!

She swallows thickly and takes a deep breath in an attempt to clear the numbness settling over her brain. She has done something absolutely unforgiving, she knows. The worst part is that she cannot gather _why_.

Her mind is wandering off to weird possibilities, and right now, she can sacrifice _any_ thing for a thoughtless brain. She considers taking the potion again, though the idea of sleeping feels suffocating right now _—_

A throat clears and a knock sounds at her open bedroom door. Holding her breath, she cranes her neck to meet the inevitable white blonde head and mercurial—

 _No_. She almost sighs with relief.

She finds a grave, freckled face, red hair and shiny brown eyes. Ginny. She smiles.

"Hi," Ginny steps in.

"Hey," she breathes out.

Carefully, Ginny perches on the other side of the double-bed. Hermione often wonders why she has taken this _double_ -bed into her flat, when she has always had a guest room to facilitate any other soul staying over. She decides she likes sleeping in spread-eagle position. Though she knows that she uses only one side of the bed.

"Good evening," Ginny smiles for the first time.

Hermione immediately looks back out of the window. The pinkish hue is dusk, not dawn, she notices with her mouth agape. _Damn_.

She looks at Ginny, sheepishly. "What time is it?" Her voice rasps _infuriatingly_ , and she grimaces.

Ginny chuckles. "A little past eight. But of the next day, I'm afraid." She doesn't sound afraid, at all, the _liar_!

Hermione's eyes widen and Ginny's glance turns teasing. "I've slept for a _day_?"

"Apparently," Ginny giggles.

She sighs. "My head feels better, at least."

"'Mione?"

"Yeah?" Hermione tries, in vain, to keep insecurity out of her voice. She cannot help it. She feels she'd always dread the scenario of being confronted for the _one_ indecisive action she has taken in her life.

"Harry was meaning to see you today," the redhead softly says, "about something important."

Hermione's blood curdles. _Harry_? No. Not _him_ , please. Maintaining a calm façade, she fearlessly gestures Ginny to continue.

"Well, _I_ have no idea what that might be about, but he insisted that it was a _really_ significant something," Ginny finishes, thoughtfully.

Hermione feels her heart beginning to skip beats as blood pounds in her ears. She gulps through a constricted, parched throat. God, _no_! She feels _so damn sorry_ for what she's done! Harry knows… Merlin, _why_? "And?"

Ginny sighs warily. "He's busy," she says, "and couldn't come. He was planning on owling you to tell you about this. I told him not to."

Hermione is compelled to ask, so she does: "Why?"

"You wouldn't have sat back if you knew," Ginny says with a shy smile. "You're too curious for your own good. _And_ ," she forcibly continues at Hermione's beginnings of a disapproving frown, "this gave me a chance of seeing you today, didn't it?"

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione smiles wryly as the younger girl breaks into giggles.

For the better part of hours that follow, Hermione really forgets about the horrors haunting her as Ginny Weasley decides to act as the best friend to her that she actually never was. For those hours of being a teenage girl, Hermione finds herself almost free of things that have maintained a constant, vicious grip over her, otherwise.

Harry Potter's concerned nosiness; Draco Malfoy's searing, uncalled for kiss; the Weasley family's hurt at her abandoning their son; said son's vengeance-cum-rebound wedding; Ron' death…

Her guilt.

 **ooo**

She isn't fully spared, obviously, and Harry gleefully—and easily—catches her when she's on her way to Cafeteria in the break, the next day. Without any formalities, he informs her that he wants to see her at dinner.

She _has_ to agree, though she does manage to postpone the plan for tomorrow, which is a comfortable Saturday. The later, the better, you know? Harry changes the meal to lunch, after she would retire from her office at noon -Saturday being a half-day at Wizengamot—and the venue to his home.

She is not uneasy at the idea of being under the same roof as Malfoy. No, not at all.

 _If only!_

 **ooo**

Her morning has been tiresome. Barbara Shelton's husband's unnecessary use of magic against a Goblin at Gringotts was perhaps _not_ incorrect in the fat woman's eyes. And Hermione doesn't even knowwhy _she_ had turned up instead of the guilty man.

Once again, in the total of the almost three months of service that she has given to Wizengamot, Hermione regrets her decision of coming up with the concept of having a private meeting before the hearing.

"Or maybe people are simply _stupid_ ," she grumbles under her breath as she collects her stuff from her scattered—yet well-arranged—desk.

She cannot decide whether having a half-day today is positive or unfortunate for her. If she was leaving for home, she wouldn't have thought twice before letting out a celebratory hoot after the last meeting had ended. But that _is_ the thing. She _isn't_ going home. Not to her flat, anyway. Harry's place is not really far from a 'home' to her, if she's being honest.

Then she is thinking about the pressing, _more_ troublesome matter at hand. Spending time with Harry is sure to give her a wonderful break from the morning's stress. But at the same time, it is _meant_ to burden her head with a lot many other worries.

She can _really_ do without the lot of them. She sighs.

Looking at her watch, she decides to leave. She stands up. Harry's training ends at half-past-eleven of a Saturday, and fifteen minutes have gone by since noon, right now.

Plunging her wand into the separate, secluded pocket of her satchel, she zips the bag close. She looks around and ensures the existence of proper order about her office —

A knock sounds at her door.

Her eyes immediately snap to the entrance and she frowns. She had informed that dimwitted, good for nothing, _puppet_ -assistant of hers that she won't be taking up any more of meetings for today, and that he should put that up in the Appointment Notice Board of the Ministry. And yet, here she is. She mentally chides herself for trusting the fool with a job.

"Yes?" she calls out in a stern, professional voice.

The door opens a crack and a head peeks in, with dull discomfort etched over the pale face. Her Respiratory System closes down. "Hey, there," he gives her a tight smile.

Or _tries_ to. What comes out is a grimace.

But then, she can't really blame him, can she?

"Malfoy," she breathes, barely resisting the urge of using that emergency-portkey again.

And—is she _stuttering_? Sure she is. While the blond is still ridiculously frowning. And, _what for_?

"Are you leaving?" he pointedly looks at the bag that she is digging her short, stubby nails impossibly hard into.

She is flustered. _What is he here for?_ She doesn't really listen to his question.

She draws in a shaky breath as he steps in. Her legs _almost_ wobble when he oh-so-nonchalantly shuts the door behind him.

Then she stammers, "Ye- _yeah_ , actually. Why are you here?"

 _What?_ Really? What happened to subtlety? She can swear she never wanted to be _this_ straightforward. But her brain seems to have become slower than her mouth.

"Um, Potter sent me, actually," he looks away from her— _finally!_ —and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

She recognizes Harry's clothes on him, again, before her mind catches up with what he has said. Seems like _everything_ else is working faster than her brain, right now!

"He did? Why?" she belatedly notices how he seems as nervous as she feels.

"He wanted me to remind you of the lunch you've promised him," he says, and she cannot help but notice the way his mouth tightens over the sentence. She doesn't stop to consider why. She cannot afford _that_ line of thoughts at this point of time.

She nods. "I hadn't forgotten."

Somehow, something about Harry sending Malfoy over to the Ministry to check whether she _remembered_ about their lunch or not, doesn't sit well with Hermione. Honestly, isn't it something _downright stupid_ to do? She knows it is. And she knows that _Harry_ knows better than that.

But what does she do, anyway? She cannot ask him to _not lie, and tell me_ actually _what you're doing here_ , can she? She hasn't been any conspicuous about her unease at his presence in her office, anyway.

She decides to retain as much dignity as she can.

"Are you coming along?"

She is as shocked at her question as he seems. _But at least this has gotten his attention back from the coffee table, right_? What? No! _Wrong_. She _doesn't_ want him to look at her, thank you very much.

And she doesn't want to look at him, either. She doesn't know if she'll ever look at him without thinking back to the memory of his glistened— _kissed_ —lips, which were swollen because _she_ had bruised them. She _really_ doesn't feel like she would.

"Uh, _yes_ , I guess," he murmurs, eying her in confusion.

 _Oh don't give me that look, Malfoy! I, too, didn't know what I was saying, okay?_

She nods, awkwardly, because in this situation, she feels more awkward than she's ever felt in her life. She wonders whether attending Fred's wedding would have surpassed this.

Ugh. Is she _crazy_? Why is she doing this _totally-God-awful-thinking_ , right now _?_ Why is she _stalling_?

"Right," she mumbles.

She is torn between staring him down and not looking at him, at all.

She glances about the office and finally takes a deep breath. Then she rounds her desk and tilts her chin towards the door.

He looks at her, then at the door, then back at her, and sighs. _Oh, no_ , she thinks, _he is planning a confrontation._

This cannot go well, she believes.

"Granger," he draws her attention away from the door. She tries acting composed and crossing her arms in faux-defiance. "About that other day… You were nearly hysterical, you know?" He is raking a hand through his impeccably arranged hair.

She's happy to realize that he is nervous, too. "Yeah," she shrugs a shoulder, keeping her gaze fixed on his silver eyes. "I kind of panicked, I figured."

He nods, slowly, and by the way his eyes are slightly narrowed at the corners, she gathers this as him trying to gauge her. She puts up the best front of nonchalance that she can.

"Yeah, you did," he breathes out, taking a step in her direction.

By Godric, she _is panicking again_! Why the hell does he seem to be closing in on her? Is he— _he's cornering her_! She almost gasps when her backside hits the edge of her table; she was unaware of stepping back.

He stops a foot before her. "You were more than panicked, actually."

He takes a half-step further, and there are about three inches between them. Her eyes widen as his glide over her features; as if looking for the minimalist twitch in the muscles of her face.

Then he looks back into her eyes, and all she can see in those quicksilver pools is desperation. She gulps, forcing all of her nerves to stop with the trembling.

His head then falls forward, forehead millimeters shy of touching hers and her eyes flutter shut. His silky, soft, silver-blond fringes brush against her eyelids, and she is barely breathing. One of his hands comes up to brush against the whitened knuckles of her fists which are tightly clenched around the strap of her bag.

"It wasn't the best course of action," he mumbles, "but it was either slapping you, or…" He huffs a breath out and straightens up. "I'm sorry about that, okay?"

She opens her eyes, brows ferociously furrowed. "You…" She stops herself, then. Sighing, she shakes her head. There's no point telling him what he _could've_ done. He's _Malfoy_ , and he's apologizing. Her life has become more than puzzled, as it is. "Okay."

He nods, then, and— _thankfully!_ —steps away from her. Though his eyes are still searching hers, and she still doesn't know what to do about it. She looks towards the door, again.

He sighs. "Alright. Let's go?"

She numbly jerks her head in a nod. Then she is following him out of her office. She shuts the door, once in the corridor, and swishes her hand to mark her fingerprint-lock. It isn't really necessary, she knows, but she doesn't encourage people barging into her almost-private space in her absence, in the name of looking for her for some meeting that she has cancelled earlier, today.

"Wand-less, wordless, Granger?" Malfoy drawls, peeking at the faint silver light engulfing the door knob, from above her shoulder. "Good, stuff."

She shrugs, turning and walking into the direction of the elevator, desperately wanting to clutch on to the remaining semblance of normalcy in this awkwardness prevailing between them. That is: her being pissed at him—so much that she behaves like he doesn't exist.

Completing his own role, he quickly catches up with her and is walking beside her within moments.

"At least tell me _what_ you did there," he asks, sounding envious.

She ducks her head to a side, calculating it to be another ten minutes till they reach Harry's. The almost nonexistence of people in the Ministry building, today, does little to lessen the amount of time it takes for a person to depart from their respective levels and floo out of the atrium. She doesn't appreciate Apparition, but the anti-Apparition charms are sure a bane when stuck in situations like the one she is, right now.

"Granger?"

She huffs a nervous laugh. "That… That wasn't _exactly_ a wand-less magic trick," she mutters, now getting really flustered by his blatant up-looking. "It's just a little lock that I invented. Me _and_ Harry, rather. It prevents the casted door knob from getting opened by a hand with fingerprints other than those of the caster's. Somewhat akin the Muggle technology—"

"—of fingerprints scanning," he cuts her. "I get it. _Really_ good stuff, this is, granger."

She dips her head forward, allowing her hair to shield her burning cheeks from his vision.

They round a corner, and…

… come face-to-face with Molly Weasley.

The plump woman jumps slightly before freezing in place. Her shocked, round eyes flick from Hermione's face to Draco, and then back with a light crease between her brows.

Hermione hasn't seen the woman in more than six months, and right now, she is totally clueless over how to interact. Thus, she stands frozen, not unlike Molly herself.

"Good afternoon, Molly!"

Hermione starts and whips her head to find Draco Malfoy smiling brightly at the woman.

"Hello, child." Molly's smile is tremulous, but obviously dripping with unfathomable affection.

Her breath sticking in her throat, Hermione cannot even swallow. Nothing about this is making sense, _at all_.

"You're late," Malfoy remarks, an eyebrow cocked at the redhead.

Molly shrugs. "I'm the mother of si—" She inhales sharply, and the back of Hermione's eyes prickle as comprehension of what the older woman was about to say, dawns upon her. She momentarily forgets the unfamiliar scene unfolding before her and holds back her own eyes from wetting. "I've got five kids and a daughter-in-law to take care of, Draco. Takes time," Molly finishes, blinking back tears, despite the smile plastered on her face.

Draco clears his throat. "Never mind," he murmurs. Then, turning to Hermione, he gives a half-smile. "You continue to Potter's house, Granger. I've got some work, here."

Blindly, she almost runs away from them.

Later, Hermione would realize that she didn't so much as _greet_ Molly Weasley. Then she'll remind herself that Molly didn't make an effort to, either. Then she'll realize that the Weasley family is _really_ upset, still, and that Hermione has given them every right to, in fact.

And then, _then_ , will the overdue guilt from breaking up with Fred finally catch up with her, and she will weep herself to sleep.

 **ooo**

"No Ginny, today?" Hermione attempts in a playful tone after she steps out from the fireplace into the living room of 12 Grimmauld Place, only to find Harry bent over the dining table, frowning at a tomato which he is probably finding difficult to chop.

He looks up with a start and grins brightly. "Hermione! Welcome! And, no. It's just us two, today."

She covers her nerves by a carefree giggle at her best friend's smile. Then she tosses her satchel onto a couch, her cloak following suit. She walks up to the other end of the room, over to the dining table.

Harry gives her a sheepish smile. "I ordered Italian," he points toward the pot of cheese pasta. "Maybe not better than Ginny's handmade delicacy, but good, nevertheless. And then I was planning to set out salad for us."

Hermione hums in agreement. " _Definitely_ not better than Ginny's goodness. But we _are_ Italian crazed, aren't we? We don't care for salads, Harry, come on."

Harry laughs, then. "That, my dear, _is_ true," he winks at her and flicks his wand to clear the mess he's made with haphazardly chopped cucumbers, radishes and tomatoes.

She settles into a chair directly opposite to where he's standing. He smiles and drags a chair to sit down at the spot. That is when she notices the lack of two more chairs from the table.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" He is already engrossed in loading his plate with a hefty lump of pasta.

She rolls her eyes at his foodie-ness, but smiles. "Why have you been setting chairs away from here?"

His head jerks up, wearing an expression that makes it seem that he doesn't know what she's talking about. He really doesn't, perhaps. Then he looks at the chairs and his eyebrows shoot up. An amused smile slowly forms on his face, which turns mischievous when he looks at her. She narrows her eyes.

"Trust you to notice trivial things, 'Mione," he states in amusement, shaking his head fondly. "You didn't notice my _haircut_ , but you can tell there are lesser chairs on my dining table. Joy!"

Hermione flushes. "Well… Your hair's always messy, so…" She flushes some more as he snickers.

"Ginny noticed," he says in a teasing tone, forwarding her the pot of food.

She scowls at him. "So? That _is_ a girlfriend thing to do. Friends don't notice _haircuts_ , Harry! And you didn't tell me, yet, by the way."

He gives her a responding scowl. "I didn't do it on purpose, Hermione. I'm in a habit of summoning a dining chair whenever I'm requiring one in any part of the house, instead of conjuring it up like usual people."

"Like _normal_ people, Harry," she shakes her head in wonder. The possibility of it being accidental didn't occur to her _once_. And she claims to know her best friend well. He's such a lazy ass, how _did_ she expect him to pay attention to something as petty as arranging his house.

"So," he begins and she tenses. "How's work?"

She sags in momentary relief. "Fine. As good as it can be for an Interrogator who is demanded by every innocent-accused-guilty."

He nods. " _Busy_ , in other words?"

She chuckles at that. "You can say that, yes. What about your training?"

"Dawlish says it is another two months. He plans on appointing me as a proper Auror to the Ministry of Magic during the event that the Ministry will be organizing on the first anniversary of Voldemort's demise."

She stiffens, then, and gives him a meaningful look.

He sighs. "I _know_ , okay? I told him so. But he said that I mustn't hold onto Ron's death anniversary, because commemorating victory is far more optimistic and intelligent."

Her jaw drops open. "He said _that_?"

Harry nods. "And I _agree_ , Hermione." Appalled, she has just opened her mouth to yell at him when he raises a finger to shush her. "It _is_ true, okay? We can't hold onto Ron's departed spirit like that, 'Mione. He's there somewhere," he vaguely gestures upwards, "watching us. And we don't want to trouble him more than he already is in, do we? In less than two months' time, it will be a year to his death."

A sob escapes her. " _How_ , Harry?" she whimpers, "how do… how do _you_ do this?"

He takes his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose with eyes shut, holding back tears, she knows. "I have to. _We all_ have to, Hermione. This is the right, the _best_ thing we can do for him." His voice is thick.

"And _what_ exactly is this _thing_ , Harry?" she shrieks miserably, " _Forgetting_ him?"

"No, 'Mione," Harry quietly puts a hand above the fist she is trying to crush her fork with. "Letting him go."

That his when she dissolves into wails and sobs, and Harry's arms encircle her. She thrashes and cries and wails.

She doesn't really know how long they stay like that. But, eventually, she does stop. She looks up and Harry's own eyes are red-rimmed.

 **ooo**

Her reflection is a nightmare; her curls a splitting image of what they used to be when she was eleven, her eyes red and puffy, and nose running. She quickly splashes handfuls of cool water on her face.

On exiting the washroom, she finds Harry perched upon a chair—a chair from the _dining room_ —looking all sorts of contemplative and nervous, at the same time. It doesn't take much for her to understand that he's pondering over something he wants to discuss with her.

He gives her a reassuring smile when she settles in his bed, opposite to where he's seated.

"Better?"

She nods.

"There's something else, Hermione," he says, clearing his throat. "About Malfoy."

She goes very still, more than cautious. After today's run-in with him, she's is even more confused as to what to expect from Harry. She feels almost certain that he hasn't told anyone about their… incident. But that doesn't stop her from getting self-conscious on the prospect of a conversation on him with her best friend.

"What about him?" she questions in a steady voice before she loses all of her nerves.

Harry purses his lips. "You're pushing him away. Why?"

 _WHAT?_ She blinks at him, not knowing how to react. _What does he even mean?!_

"What?" she daftly asks.

He sighs. "You're going out of the way to avoid crossing paths with him. I bet you even found a way out to void his entry to your office, didn't you?"

She feels offended, more than a little confused, but the reminder of the fact that Harry had sent Malfoy to her office is enough to rile her up.

"Why _did_ you send him, anyway?" she snaps.

He frowns, "I did not _send_ him, per se. He was visiting the Ministry and I asked him to peek into your office and ensure that you haven't forgotten about our luncheon, today."

"He was _visiting the Ministry_? Why on earth?" her mouth is agape and eyes big as saucers. "Does this have anything to do with him walking away with Molly when he saw her?"

Harry nods. "This has everything to do with it. He's applying for the post of the Assistant to the Chief Warlock; which would be Arthur."

Her breath leaves in an echoing gasp. "He's… He's applying for a… _place_ at the Ministry?"

Harry smiles.

She shakes her head, astonished. "I had no clue."

"Why would _you_ have a clue? He's my housemate, remember?" Harry scoffs nastily.

"What is this, Harry?" she finally grinds out, exasperated. "What _are_ you playing at?"

Harry narrows his eyes. "I'm not _playing_ at anything, Hermione. It's just that you are one of the most compassionate people I know. May even pass for the most compassionate I've ever known, in fact. And then here you are—behaving all weird about someone who's been nothing but well-behaved and respectful, at every opportunity he's gotten. All I'm asking is that what _has_ caused this _indifference_ in you, Hermione?"

She looks away. "It's nothing, Harry, really. I _do_ want to be civil—more than civil, in fact. But…"

"I understand. You two share really bad history, worse than what _I_ share with him, I know. But, Hermione, he's a changed man. And believe this, because it isn't everyday you find Harry Potter ranting praises for Draco Malfoy."

She chuckles at his little snark before getting grave once again.

"He's got no one but, us," Harry says in a quiet voice, "and trust me when I say that I _know_ how it feels. It _sucks_ to be that lonely, 'Mione. Don't try to not be what we all know Hermione Granger is, around him, Hermione, please."

She fiddles with the edge of her shirt before taking a deep breath and exhaling. "Alright, Harry. I'll try the best I can."

Harry beams a smile at her and engulfs her in a hug that reminds her of her own bone-crushing ones from Hogwarts' days.

She will _really_ try, she decides.

 **ooo**

It is late Monday morning, and she is coming back from Alaric Shelton's hearing. The man was found guilty and has been sentenced three months of wand confiscation.

Sighing tiredly, she is not surprised to find the door to her office ajar. She hadn't locked it, today.

She pushes it open and gasps. Then her eyes widen. Ginny is lounging on her chair, swiveling it merrily, while Harry is lying on the couch placed next to the entrance, and Draco Malfoy is nervously perched atop a corner of her desk. His eyes are already fixed on her, and she can tell that he's searching her face, again.

Ginny squeals and gets up on noticing her. "You're back!"

She smiles at the younger witch.

Harry twists his head to look at her, and gives her a smirk. "Hey, there. Took you long."

She shrugs, stepping in and taking her cloak off. "The guilty-party was a damned loony case."

She glances at Harry and he gives her a pointed glare. Clicking her tongue in defeat, she turns around to face Malfoy. He's still looking at her with apprehension written all over his face.

She smiles, at least tries to, and nods. "Malfoy."

His eyes widen a fraction before he clears his throat and straightens. She recognizes this as him adjusting back to his carefree, calm, snarky demeanor. Then he smirks, and she knows she is right.

"Hello, Granger."

She nods again before slouching into a visitor's chair kept next to her desk. She cocks an eyebrow at Ginny, who is still grinning like a fool. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Guess." Ginny waggles her eyebrows mischievously.

Hermione has no idea. She looks at Harry, holding her questioning expression.

Harry shrugs. "I don't know. _Guess_."

Ginny giggles while Hermione crosses her arms, huffing petulantly. Then she looks up at Malfoy, who has lost his playful act, again, and is looking at her with an intense, indecipherable expression.

"What is it?" she asks him.

Her pulse almost catches when he smiles at her. An introverted, yet bright, _endearing_ smile. "I got the job."

She gasps, eyes round and mouth open. "You… _Wow_!" she breathes out. "Congratulations!" she exclaims, thrusting her hand forth for him to shake.

Hesitantly, he does.

Then Ginny calls out for their attention, and she snatches her hand away, pretending that the hair at the back of her neck haven't stood on end, and goose-bumps haven't broken on her skin because of the contact. It is better that way. If she acknowledges, she'll have to find a reason, and _that_ is a direction she wants her thoughts to hedge away from.

"We're celebrating it, this weekend," Ginny announces, "in the form of a thrilling evening at _Quaffles and Sugar Quills_."

"At _what_?" Hermione asks, frowning at the strange name.

Gunny scowls at her. " _Seriously_ , Hermione? It is the brand new night club opened near _Signora Estate_ ," she explains, referring to the well-known residence of Blaise Zabini.

"Oh," Hermione nods. Then it strikes her. "Wait, _what?_ We're _not_ visiting any nightclubs, Ginny!" she admonishes.

Ginny shrugs. "Suit yourself. We three _are_ going there, this Saturday."

Hermione's mouth falls open.

"Come on Ginny, Draco," Harry stands up and stretches. "Let the mighty Prosecutor do her job."

" _Interrogator_ ," Hermione mutters after them.

 **ooo**

It is late into Wednesday evening, and Hermione is engrossed in figuring out what has gone with her vacuum cleaner.

"Stop _it_ , you ass," she mutters at the hose, jerking and swishing it in the air.

A knock sounds at her door. She heaves a sigh of relief, _Must be the electrician_.

Walking to the door, she pulls it open. Her heart comes to a stop, lungs rupturing as the entire inhaled oxygen leaves her system at what she sees. Rather, _who_ she sees.

She hears a gasp of 'Hermy' before her world blackens.

 **ooo**

Her eyes open, slowly, and the first thing she registers is the fingers combing through her hair.

She frowns. Ginny has never done such a motherly thing for her. Then her eyes widen, what if Molly…

She inhales sharply as the events before her passing out make a comeback to her brain.

The female who is cradling her head in her lap notices the movement, and her sigh washes over Hermione's face. Hermione's eyes water.

"Mum?" she chokes out.

Her mother chortles, happily. "Yes, sweetheart, it is me."

Hermione flicks her gaze on to the other end of her room, and her father is smiling at her. "Hello, Hermy."

She whimpers, then, twisting in place, wraps both her arms around her mother and shakes with the vehement sobs of her own and her mother's combined. Muffled "I'm sorry," "I missed you," and, "I love you," escape them, at occasions.

When they part, Hermione sits up, wiping rapidly at her eyes. "Dad!" she exclaims, hopping off the bed and running into her father's waiting arms.

"I missed you, Hermy," he speaks into his daughter's hair.

"Me too, dad," she sobs into his shoulder. "And I'm so, so _sorry_ —"

"No, Hermy," he pats her back, pulling her away. "We _know_ why you did what you did. We know about the war, about _Vold Emort_. Draco told us."

She jumps away. " _What?_ "

"Your friend, Draco Malfoy? The dear young man," her mother explains, "who'd come to us in Australia, yesterday? He told us everything about what had transpired, here, while we were… you know."

Hermione feels her knees giving up. She drops on the edge of her bed. "And did he say _who_ had sent him?"

Her mother shrugs. "We didn't ask," she tells her. "Initially, when he had appeared at our doorstep, he'd said he was a salesman for some newly inaugurated firm that manufactured fruit juices, and that he was out to test samples with the common people. We invited him in. Later, he tricked us into taking a liquid concoction that was _absolutely not_ a _fruit_ juice.

"But after just the first mouthful that we'd gulped, it was all coming back to us. We just… just _knew_ that we weren't Isla and Jason Wilkins, and that we had a gorgeous little daughter…" She pauses, eyes brimming.

Hermione's heart clenches painfully. _She_ has created this trouble in their lives. _She_ has caused her parents to go through this pain, and _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people, has given them what seems like an antidote.

"It was appearing in flashes, Hermione," her father tells further. "He advised us to drink more of that sour tasting liquid; we did. Then it was as if there was a missing chunk in our memories. We remembered you, princess, and your being a Witch."

"He told us that he was from Hogwarts," her mother says through a constricted throat. "And that he was Hermione Granger's friend."

"We conceded, then," says her father. "We knew it was risky, but the state that our thoughts were in—we needed an out, and he was the only means."

Hermione nods, tears running down her face as her father looks at her with pleading eyes. She has always been the logical one in their little family—reprimanding her parents for every rash action, every decision that wasn't well pondered over. Is he expecting her to be mad at them, _now_ —after she's gotten them back from a place she'd doubted she ever would? He is being silly, if that is what he thinks.

"He asked us for permission to use magic," her mother says, quietly inspecting her finger nails. Hermione wonders if _she_ is feeling guilty on her, too. "We allowed, knowing that he was your friend. He showed us a holographic image of you, your friend Harry Potter, another girl with long hair, and Draco himself—sitting in an office sort of a place. He said it was a _memory_ of his, from two days back, and that the office was yours," she flashes Hermione a proud smile; the girl melts some more. "We didn't have much of a choice, anyways, and so we took the chance.

"That was when he gave us that 3-D tour sort of thing—which was as terrifying as it was exciting, let me tell you—and we were convinced," her father finished.

Hermione breaks down into shaking, wailing, and wracking from sobs that tear her apart. Her mother rushes to envelope her in a hug. She can hear her father pouring calming words down over her, but nothing is affecting her brain cells right now.

She doesn't even know _why_ she is crying, really. It isn't as if something has _happened_ to her parents. They are as good as could have been, and they are here— _with her_. She supposes this is guilt.

Draco Malfoy has done what she knew was the _most important_ task in her life. She feels guilty at her procrastination, only due to the reason that she didn't trust her practice on the anti-spells enough. But _he_ 's done it. With a _potion_ , at that.

She has treated Draco the worst she can. Yes, Harry has chastised her over her behavior, but that has been much too late. She's been an absolutely heartless person—when she gave up on him, now that she thinks of it, after the very first time he'd smugly told her off in her office.

Another, sudden bout of guilt washes over her. She had never sat back to wonder before, but now it seems to make sense. He wasn't really trying to be a prat, that first time in her office at Wizengamot. It was probably a defense-mechanism of some sort. He had been out into his probation for quite a long time. He'd already gone through numerous hearings before she was assigned as an Interrogator to his case. How was he supposed to know what _she_ was intending to do? For all he knew, she might as well have been trying to get him to speak something snobbish, which she would then use against him in the court.

They are— _were_ , at least—sworn enemies, after all. How wrong was it for him to think that she was actually plotting against him, in the name of being compassionate?

"Hermione," her mother taps at her chin, and that is when she realizes that she's stopped crying and is, in fact, frowning into space.

"I'm so, so _happy_ to have you two back, you don't even know," she says, her voice hoarse from the efforts of holding back tears. "And I'm so, so, _so_ sorry, Mum," she mumbles as she clutches her mother hands, "for what I did. It had to be done, do you see? Yes, I was impulsive, I wasn't quite thinking properly; but they were _slaughtering_ Muggles, Mum. Dad."

" _Hermione_ ," her father calmly puts a hand over her head. "We understand, dear. Trust me, we _do_. We're not _in the least_ mad at you, if that's what you're worried about."

She _was_ , and that is why the relief washing over her makes her sigh. "Really?"

"Yes, child, really," her mother says, lovingly wrapping an arm about her shoulders. "We're proud, in fact. This has been a very brave act on your part, Hermy. You sent _us_ into safety and yourself stayed behind with your friends, in those dangerous times. You are as valiant as you're bright, my sweetheart, and all the change that this chapter of our life has brought about, is that we've realized— _once again_ —how lucky we both really are to have you as our daughter."

Smiling through tears, Hermione engulfs both her parents in a hug.

* * *

 _Intrigued, somehow?_

 _Leave a word!_

 _xoxo_

 _Aishwarya._


End file.
